Mass Effect: Repercussions
by 95Headhunter
Summary: In the wake of the attack on the Citadel, a C-Sec investigator finds himself embroiled in an uprising underworld. But as separate events across the galaxy unfold, a major conspiracy is unravelled. Benjamin Lawson will find everything has repurcussions.
1. Prologue

**A/N**: First published fanfic here. Mostly original characters, with a smattering of cameos and minor appearances from some of Mass Effect's supporting cast. Rated M for language and violence, perhaps some sexual themes to come. I'm still getting used to 's formatting, so be prepared for some minor updates here and there. Feedback very welcome. I'd prefer criticism to be kept constructive, but don't hesitate to let me know even if you hate it.

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**Prologue**

**Archasis, Danube System, Voyager Cluster**

**2174**

With only a soft whine from its ventral air jets, the transport hit the hard ground of Archasis, its rate of descent so slowed by a combination of externally deployed helium gas envelopes, mass effect fields and an artificially produced air cushion that it made barely any noise, a feat entirely in keeping with the vessel's purpose.

Its approach to the planet had been slow out of necessity, the pilot was forced to drop from faster-than-light speeds far earlier than was common to minimise the chances of the radiation emitted during the transition being detected. Though the vessel's design and material construction was optimised for stealth, its engines could only run at a slow burn as it approached Archasis' thin atmosphere, again to keep emissions as low as possible. Finally, the engines had to be completely shut off for the descent through the atmosphere, the craft's freefall slowed by the inflation of a series of large latex bags along the hull containing helium, operating on the principles of the very first human flight. The oldest human flight technology was merged with the newest, a powerful mass effect field that effectively reduced the vessel's mass, and subsequently its weight, allowing the minimally sized balloons to work effectively.

All this was merely a precaution, Archasis was home to less than two hundred inhabitants, and the chances of them actually spotting the transport were already low. But the ship's occupants were used to secrecy, it was second nature to them; caution was their mantra, and to disregard their training for the sake of convenience was unthinkable, especially given the potentially fatal consequences of early detection.

Resting on an array of landing struts, the transport stood more than two metres above the rock flats of the northern tip of Archasis' largest landmass, ample room for the boarding ramp to descend and allow its occupants to debark. Even in something as simple as this, though, the men inside were rigorous in their adherence to procedure and training. The first two to emerge were clad in black body armour, reinforced helmets with a visor covering three quarters of the otherwise exposed face sat squat on their heads. Their stance was slightly crouched, their arms raised as they gripped blocky assault rifles, their outward aim constantly swivelling in a near hundred-and-eighty degree arc away from the transports front. The two soldiers crept down the ramp, settling into a full, stationary crouch at the bottom of the ramp.

The rightmost one removed his left hand from the rifle's foregrip, and raised it just above his head, palm open. After a brief moment, he silently tapped the top of his helmet twice. Less than a second after the action was complete, a further three soldiers, clad in the same black armour came down the ramp, again crouching with assault rifles raised. These three went further than first two, making their way beyond the overhang of their transport, to take up positions in a semi-circle around the bow, rifles remaining high. The two point men moved again, taking up positions between and slightly in front of their three squadmates. A final three men emerged from the transport, their movement only fractionally, but noticeably nonetheless, smoother than the other five. They were more precise, more certain; even among the elite they stood out. The one on the left side carried a long barrelled sniper rifle, his assault rifle compacted and fitted to a carrying space on his back. All the men carried smaller shotguns in a similar manner in a slot in the lower back. The one in the middle was the shorter of the three, though his form fitting armour also showed him to be of heavier build, the eyes behind the transparent visor gleamed with confidence and a cold arrogance, a subtle sign of his command over the other men, a sign that would be confirmed by a small turned v symbol on his shoulder, were anyone able to get close enough to see it.

"We're clear, sir," Came a young voice, breaking the still of the Archasis night air, "visual and scanning equipment show no signs of life for the next ten kilometres."

"Acknowledged, Gamma," the commander said with quick nod of his head. He strode down the rest of the ramp, and looked around, keen eyes taking in all the detail of the relatively featureless plain. To the east was a large buttress of grey rock, stark against the beige dust of the rock plain even in the pale light of two of Archasis' moons. To the south, their destination, he could see the beginnings of scrub land, the opening into the 'tropical' regions on either side of the planet's equator, its only habitable band. A soft wind had sprung up out of the still night, a sign that day was on the approach.

"Epsilon," he barked, this time to the man on his right, "get the rover down." With a silent nod, the taller man moved back into the interior of the ship. Unlike the others, he carried no weapon in his hands. His assault rifle was stored, like the sniper's, on his back; the way he had gripped the stock of the pistol on his hip was, however, testament to his preferences. Epsilon's armour was markedly slimmer than the other members of his squad, lacking the large shoulder defenders and neck armour, a concession in protection that benefitted mobility.

A few minutes after he had returned to the transport, a large section of its ventral hull descended to the ground, a large lift on which a bulky, six-wheeled vehicle stood. The T45 Armoured Personnel Carrier was as ugly as it was capable. Its heavy plating offered protection from both enemy fire and dozens of the potential hazards one could encounter on otherwise inhospitable worlds, while the 80mm turret mounted mass accelerator cannon on its topside gave it considerable ability to defend itself. The hatch at the rear of the vehicle opened, and the eight man squad wordlessly boarded the vehicle.

An hour and a half later, and the APC was tearing through ever-thickening scrub land as it headed for its target, three hundred kilometres north of the equator.

"Lambda," the squad leader shouted over the roar of the engines, "what's our position?"

The man he addressed, one of the two who had hit the ground first, was sat forward behind and to the right of Tau, the driver, in the navigation seat. His features were younger than that of his companions, his brown military haircut was completely hidden by the helmet, and his face was less weathered than the more experienced men around him. But the green eyes that glimmered through his visor in the dim light of the APC's interior were focused with the same cold determination as all the other eyes in the vehicle. He may have been the youngest, the squad newbie, but he was still combat hardened, a veteran of five years service in the military. Two of those years had been spent in the service of the Space and Planetary Extraction, Assault, Reconnaissance Service, known as the SPEARS both for convenience and in acknowledgement of their elite status in the Marine Corps. Though their origins could be traced back to the 20th century's US Navy SEALS, the SPEARS was attached solely to the Systems Alliance, and included soldiers not only from almost every country on Earth, by from many of her colony worlds as well.

But despite their training, the Alliance had found that a unit as large and well known as the SPEARS was insufficient for the most dangerous, secretive and in many cases ethically questionable operations that were sometimes required in order to maintain the peace. And thus it was that Lambda's new division had been set up. The black-ops unit known as Cerberus went beyond the usual command structure, technically they were not part of the Surface Armies, nor did they answer to the Navy. Cerberus had one commander, and he was known only to the highest military administrators and government officials.

To be a member was a great honour, Cerberus was sworn to protect humanity at all and any cost, and they recruited only the best and brightest, typically from the SPEARS, or the army's Triple S regiment, but rumours persisted that not all the unit's members had even been military, some were said to have been mercenaries for hire, or even criminals whose abilities and mindset had allowed them to blend in with the rest of the troops. In addition, Cerberus operated its own intelligence service and maintained a modest flotilla of strike frigates and support vessels.

To the strike teams, the crux of Cerberus' operations, names were disregarded for operational security. Discussions involving any personal details were discouraged, as were friendships with one's teammates. It was a dangerous, dark life, shrouded in secrecy; but for the man known to his squadmates only as Lambda, the prestige of such a posting was worth the restrictions on social life. A three year tour here and he would have his pick of postings. He could return as the commander of SPEARS unit, and carry on with a substantial paycheque, a position of respect and a job he enjoyed until he was ready to retire. And of course, Cerberus was the epitome of self-sacrifice for the greater good of humanity, and that alone appealed to Lambda.

"We're eighty klicks out, sir," Lambda told his commanding officer, known to his squad as Sigma, "Increasing amounts of vegetation, there's a small forest about four klicks to the south east, but our course takes us round it. The facility is on the borders of a much larger forest to the south."

Having studied the briefing data more thoroughly even than the troops under his command, Sigma was already well aware of the facility's location, but he appreciated that Lambda was merely mentioning all the information he felt relevant at this time. Still, Cerberus valued precision over all else, and Lambda needed to know that when asked a question, he should answer that and nothing else. It wouldn't do to hold a conversation in the middle of a firefight, and that had to be ingrained even outside training and the battlefield.

"Acknowledged, but when I ask a question, Lambda, I only want you to answer that specific question, not give me crap about something I already know. Understood?"

"Sir, yes sir. Sorry, sir." Lambda's clipped voice betrayed none of the mild embarrassment he felt underneath, and he hastily returned to his navigation duties.

Sigma was an excellent commander, indeed Lamba often marvelled at how he could possibly still only be a sergeant, when the rank of major or even colonel seemed so much more fitting, but he was a cold man, almost to the point of ruthlessness. Lambda knew that Sigma was a career man, he had joined the military at eighteen, supposedly having already completed a youth programme that allowed him to fly through basic. He had been in the Triple S, but most of his career had been serving in Cerberus, and it showed in his personality. He had become so engrossed in this world of shadows and death that it was now all he cared about, getting the job of protecting Earth done, however possible, with no thought of immediate consequences.

Lambda briefly looked up from the holographic map occupying the space in front of him, and studied the men of his eight man squad. They were Cerberus Assault Squad Two, their nickname of 'The Claws' being the only personal touch they were allowed. They had no badge, no motif and no mascot; second only to Squad One, 'The Fangs', the nickname and the fierce competition between the two squads were the only links the men had to a more normal military life. All of the men were preparing themselves for combat, some sitting stoically to remain focused, others endlessly checking and rechecking their gear in near-silence to maintain confidence in their weapons. Epsilon was running through some programs on his omni-tool, the orange holographic interface covering his left hand like a bizarre glove, while next to him demolitions expert Delta was mouthing detonation sequences to himself soundlessly, his eyes closed as he scanned his memory.

Lambda took a small canteen from a pouch below the shotgun on his lower back and took a swig. The water was a little warm, but it relieved his dry throat. Shaking off his feelings of apprehension, Lambda replaced the canteen and returned to his duties once again, his face mirroring the stony impassiveness of the APC's driver, Tau.

*****

Less than two hours later, the squad had taken up positions in a wooded area eight hundred metres from their objective. The men had fanned out, to reduce group visibility, and most were taking cover behind trees or rocks, save for a cluster of three men in the middle of the formation, lying prone in a tangle of loose foliage. In the centre of these three was the squad sniper expert, Gamma, peering through the scope of his Naginata sniper rifle; beside him was squad commander Sigma and tech expert Epsilon.

"Two sniper towers overlooking the main entrance," Gamma said, in barely more than a whisper despite the distance between the Cerberus squad and the facility, "guards on duty, but they're not weapons-ready. They're both sitting down, looks like one's even using an extranet terminal."

"Sloppy." Sigma spat

"I doubt they expected to ever be attacked, inaction breeds ill-discipline." Epsilon countered, eliciting a small smile from Sigma; it was a phrase he used often.

"I don't see any other defences, anti-infantry turret on the balcony above the door, but it requires an operator and there are non present." Epsilon concluded his survey.

"Right, take them down on code Zulu," Sigma ordered, before flicking a small switch on the side of his helmet to activate the suit radio, "Lambda and Tau, provide cover for Epsilon and Delta as they advance to the door, go code Zulu. Iota and Alpha, you're with me."

Lambda sprinted quickly over to Delta, his gait made awkward by crouching low to decrease his visibility. Meeting up with Epsilon and Tau behind a mid sized tree on the edge of the wood, they arranged themselves in staggered, partnered formation; Epsilon and Tau at the front, with Epsilon to the side of slightly behind Tau, with Delta and Lambda in a similar position a couple of metres behind Epsilon.

"Squad, Sigma. Go code Zulu." Sigma breathed into his microphone.

Immediately, Tau took a deep breath and sprinted from cover towards a rock some three hundred metres away, the only cover in all that distance. As soon as he left the tree line, Gamma squeezed the trigger of his rifle, the crosshairs of his scope lined up perfectly with the turian guard in the left-most watchtower. Tau heard the weapon's booming report clearly over his heavy footfalls and heavier breathing, and in Gamma's scope, the turian's head vanished in a cloud of pink mist. No sooner had he registered the kill, he was already training his scope on the human guard in the right tower. The man had heard the shot, and was scrambling to his feet, hands fumbling with a rifle of his own. He was far too late though, and only a few seconds after his comrade's death, he met an all too similar fate.

An equivalent time gap existed between Tau and Epsilon's departure from the cover of the wood, but Epsilon was a fractionally quicker runner, his lighter armour making considerable difference in agility and by the time Tau hit the rock and trained his assault rifle on the facility's entrance, Epsilon had joined him in their new cover, panting slightly from the run.

Soon after came Lambda and Delta.

"This is crazy," Delta whispered, "there's no cover between here and the base. None at all."

"Then we take it slow and cautious, if we sprint for it, we'll have no time to react if a contact does pop up. We move out together, and try and cover all the angles, if a target makes themselves known, we train fire on them and hope our shields can take the first few hits. Agreed?" Tau, the most experienced Cerberus soldier present suggested. The others nodded in unanimous agreement. And they stood up at once, moving at brisk walking pace towards the facility, weapons raised and aimed in different directions. Lambda fell in slightly behind the others as rearguard, watching the nearly semicircular field of view to the rear of the formation for any sign of movement.

The men made it to the entrance with no complications, and set up positions either side of the large door. Epsilon immediately went to work on the door's control panel with his omni-tool, radioing Sigma on completion of his survey.

"Entrance is clear, sergeant. No security systems beyond coded door entry, and I can crack that with no problems. The main entrance uses a decon system, there's two sets of doors."

"We're on our way. Have Delta get a breach charge ready, we'll crack the first door and blow the second."

"Aye, sir." Epsilon's response an instinct left over from his time in the marines.

A few moments later, Sigma, Gamma and the other two members of the squad had arrived, and Epsilon had finished decrypting the door code. With a soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened and the men stepped inside. Lambda and Tau immediately positioned themselves either side of the inner door, backs to the wall and weapons ready. Epsilon crouched next to Tau, pistol in hand; Gamma and Sigma moved to either side of the room, weapons trained on the door, with Iota and Alpha in similar positions between them, further back from the door. Delta affixed a small explosive charge to the doors locking mechanism, while Lambda removed a disc-shaped stun grenade from his belt. With a nod from Sigma, Delta fired the detonator charge and scurried behind Lambda, readying his assault rifle. The breach charge blew, and the door collapsed inwards, Lambda primed his grenade and throw it in, turning away to shield his eyes from the dazzling flash, while his helmet filters dampened the deafening bang.

It was a classic door breach manoeuvre, but scarcely was it performed with the precision these men were capable of. His sniper rifle pointed at the doorway, eye to the smartscope, Gamma was the first to look inside the facility, the combat optics filters allowing his scope to penetrate the swirling dust and smoke that resulted from the door's violent destruction.

As expected, this second room had not been empty. A door guard, caught in the blast, lay on the floor just beyond the broken remains of the door, blood pooling where his right leg had been blown clean off, his face a blood-stained mask of shock, as his open eyes seemed to stare at the piece of doorframe lodged in his chest. Further into the room, two more guards were crouched down, hands pressed against their heads as they tried to shut out the disorientation and clear the searing afterimage from their vision.

"Weapons free." Came Sigma's voice over the radio, cold in its simple command. He followed up the order with a swift burst from his assault rifle, sending shards of metal accelerated to incredible velocity at the nearest guard, a turian. The rounds tore through the man's body armour, and he jerked with the impact before falling to the floor. Still deafened from the stun grenade, the second guard did not even hear the gunfire that killed his companion, and a shot from Gamma's sniper rifle sent him to join the departed. "Move out." Sigma gave a second order, and the squad proceeded through the ruined doorway into the facility itself.

Lambda's briefing had told him that the facility was home to a joint project between turian and human military contractors. The reports stated that shortly after the group had developed a device that allowed a simple rifle to be quickly converted into a miniaturised particle accelerator, they had gone rogue and abandoned their government directives. Rather than the standard mechanism of shearing rounds off a block of treated metal, the device allowed a rifle to fire charged bolts of particles, typically protons, along with a minimal mass to guide the particles home. Reminiscent of the fighter launched disruptor torpedoes, these rounds were capable of entirely bypassing kinetic barriers, though the damage they were capable of inflicting was less than a conventional round.

Still, it was a dangerous technology, and it could not fall into the hands of terrorists. Intelligence had not suggested any motivation for the scientists to go rogue, but had stressed the importance of recovering the weapon, and capturing the scientists for further interrogation. Supposedly, the turians had previously had limited success with a similar design on the atomic scale, using lithium ions, but Lambda found it quite remarkable that the youngest species on the galactic scene, humanity, had already helped them perfect the new design only a few decades after first contact.

As the squad moved through the entrance station, Lambda returned his thoughts to the immediate mission. He needed to focus, though there were no firm numbers on the amount of guards stationed here, estimates placed their numbers around twenty, and the Cerberus team's violent entry must surely have alerted them. Decrypting the second door may have been initially quieter, but the risk of not knowing what was behind the door, as well as the noise of the firefight that would have come eventually meant that surprise and blistering speed offered a much greater advantage than stealth.

The squad navigated their way through the corridors to the labs, using a cautious leap frog approach to move the men round the corners, along with mirrors to peer round them, and grenades to clear out any hostiles that might be hiding behind cover. They encountered no resistance, however, until they breached the labs. The main room was too large for the flashbang grenade to be effective, and the Cerberus squad found themselves in a firefight with a team of around ten facility guards.

Immediately, Lambda took cover behind a reinforced metal experiment table. Trusting in his suits kinetic barriers, he popped his head and assault rifle above the table. Feeling a soft impact on his head as a round struck his shields, Lambda took aim at the turian guard firing at him, a burst from the assault rifle lighting up the man's kinetic barriers around the impact in a blue haze. A second burst produced no such effect, but the man's armour appeared to deflect the rounds. Lambda ducked down again, but did not hear the expected impacts of return fire on the table. He looked over again, and saw the turian slumped over the crate he had been using for cover. Apparently, a round had penetrated somewhere critical, evidence that the guards' light armour had not been designed with top of the line military hardware in mind.

Over to Lambda's left, Tau and Iota were exchanging fire with a trio of human guards, one of whom had a shotgun firing blazing scarlet rounds. Incendiaries, Lambda realised, as shrapnel from one blast burned a blackened hole in a nearby chair. Tau and Iota sprang out from either side of the crate they were crouched behind simultaneously and fired two quick bursts of their assault rifles at the guard on the right. Tau's took out the kinetic barriers, while Iota's made a mess of the man's face, splattering blood and grey matter on the wall behind him.

As Iota attempted to roll behind a desk to his left, the shotgun fired again, striking him on the leg. The kinetic barriers dealt with most of the impact, but so many projectiles on such a small area overwhelmed the abilities of the shield, and some burned their way through the armour.

"Son of a bitch!" Iota screamed as he clutched his leg, red blood leaking out of the wound and faint wisps of smoke curling upwards from the holes in his armour. The blast had sufficient force to knock Iota out of his roll, and he was now exposed. As the guard racked his shotgun to clear any trace shrapnel left in the barrel, and aimed at Iota once again, his head exploded as a high velocity round passed through it, accompanied by the distinctive boom of Gamma's sniper rifle. That left one guard remaining in the immediate area, and both Tau and Lambda opened fire in the same instant, sustained bursts of fire that delivered sufficient kinetic energy to knock the guard backwards as he fell in a jerking, skittering dance, the rounds ripping through his armour and bloodying the floor beneath him.

Over on the other side of the room, Sigma and Delta flanked a pair of guards while Alpha kept their heads down with suppressing fire from his machine gun, the bulky weapon's extreme rate of fire and destructive ability not allowing the guards to move a muscle for fear of being hit by an oversized round. With flawless timing, Alpha ceased fire just as Sigma and Delta sighted the guards. The helpless men attempted to return fire on Alpha, unaware of the two other soldiers now behind them. Sustained assault rifle fire quickly felled the guards before they had a chance to turn round.

Lambda scanned the room, there was only one guard left. He was standing his ground in front of a group of terrified scientists and technicians cowering in a corner, his outstretched hand clutching a shaking pistol that was aimed right at Epsilon, who in turn was pointing his own pistol at the guard.

"I'd drop that weapon if I were you," he said levelly, "you're more than a little outnumbered."

Lambda turned to see Gamma raising his rifle at the guard, but his angle was tight enough that he risked hitting Epsilon, and any movement could spook the guard into firing. Clearly, Gamma was not convinced Epsilon's light armour would protect him, especially given the nature of the weapon that had been developed at this facility.

"Sigma, Gamma. I do not have clear shot on target. Repeat: I do not have a clear shot." Gamma whispered into the radio.

The guard kept his gun up, his face drained of all colour. He opened his mouth a fraction as if to say something, but quickly closed it again. Looking again at Epsilon, Lambda noticed that he was slowly moving his fingers over his omni-tool, specifically he was fitting a small disc into a slot at the top of the device. A tech mine, Lambda had seen them used often enough to instantly recognise the device. Keeping his face impassive, Epsilon suddenly flicked his wrist forward, the orange holographic interface lighting up as he activated his omni-tool. The stunned guard pulled the trigger of his pistol, but too late. The proximity activated mine had flashed out a signal that interfered with the pistol's heat sensors, fooling it into thinking the weapon had overheated. The gun jammed, and the guard let out a scream of terror and frustration just before Epsilon calmly fired a single round between the guard's eyes, letting out a slow breath as the man fell to the floor.

"Well done Epsilon," Sigma said in a rare admission of praise, "now get to work extracting the files from these computers. Lambda, take Tau and Delta and check out the rest of this facility. Alpha, clean this room up. I'll see what I can do for Iota."

Lambda winced; it was a bitter irony that the only member of their team injured was the squad medic. Fortunately he was still conscious, and everyone on the team knew enough that he could at least be stabilised. Accepting there was nothing he could do for the man propped up against a desk, teeth gritted through the pain, Lambda set off through the lab exit on the other side from their entrance.

As the door closed behind them, Lambda was shocked to hear the muffled sound of Alpha's machine gun fire two quick bursts. Their mission had been to capture the scientists, granted he had not been sure how they were to be extracted, but they were unarmed prisoners nonetheless. Still, his orders were clear, and Lambda and his team proceeded to clear out the corridors beyond the lab, a twisting array of dormitories and dining rooms, along with some offices and a guard post.

All of them were empty, and the slow pace that caution dictated was beginning to become frustrating with no results. But on reaching a cluster of offices at the rear of the facility, a sign told Lambda he was in the administration section, and the mirror he held round the corner showed it was guarded. Haste borne of frustration caused Lambda to put the mirror out a little too far, and the two human guards either side of the door at the end of the corridor saw it. A hail of gunfire forced Lawson to duck further round the corner, as several rounds ripped through the wall. Realising this was no time for subtlety, he pulled a high explosive grenade from his belt and throw it round the corner. The blast rocked the floor and dislodged pieces of wall and ceiling, shattering the lights. Peering through the smoke, Lambda found what remained of the guards scattered across the corridor, dark blood staining what little of the floor was not scorched black.

The door they had been guarding was locked, but a blast from Lambda's shotgun quickly solved that issue as the projectiles shredded the locks. A firm kick collapsed the door in, and the team moved in, weapons raised, to find two humans and a turian waiting for them. One human and the turian wore lab coats, while the other human was dressed in a smart suit, now looking somewhat dishevelled. The turian had a pistol raised at them, and Lambda's shotgun immediately faced him.

"Drop the weapon, turian!" Lambda shouted sternly. The turian hesitated slightly, but confronted with Lambda's shotgun, and the assault rifles of his teammates, he complied. "Good. You are all under arrest for conspiring against both the Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy and for the development of weapons with the intent to commit terrorism against said governments. You do not-"

"What?" The human in the suit cut him off, "This is madness! We're not conspiring against the government! We're military contractors; this work is for the Alliance and all of Citadel Space!"

"Wrong," came a voice behind Lambda, he turned to see Sigma standing there, pistol in hand, "this weapon is for the Alliance, no one else. We're here to see it doesn't fall into the hands of alien scum like this," he motioned to the turian, "Cerberus serves the human race, and that's it."

"Sir," Lambda interjected, "I thought we were here to capture the weapon and the science team, what happened to-?"

"Operational security, Lambda," Sigma cut in again, "I didn't know if I could trust you with the details of the op before we went in. This division was set up specifically for operations like this, this is what Cerberus does. The Alliance needs every edge over the aliens it can get, but what we want and how we have to appear to the aliens lording it over us on the council can be two different things. That's where deniability comes in. We get our orders from the General, no one else, and he can be rather elusive. The aliens won't ever know what his job really is, hell most of the Alliance military doesn't know. We take the tech, and cover our tracks. And on top of that we get to blame the destruction of a joint species research base on terrorists, which lessens the restrictions on us hunting the real bastards out there. Win-win, Lambda." Sigma smiled, and aimed his pistol at the man in the suit. "Administrator Blackburn, it's my responsibility to see to you personally." Sigma pulled the trigger, and Blackburn collapsed backwards with a gurgle as the round struck his throat, a brief spray of blood spattering the ceiling as his head was thrown backwards.

The human scientist dived to the floor, but a burst from Tau's assault rifle ensured he was dead before he hit the floor.

"Now Lambda, I need to know you can commit to this unit fully. Dispose of the alien." Sigma ordered, a harsh note in his voice.

Lambda opened his mouth to object, but caught the look in his commander's eyes. He hesitated, the shotgun quivering in his unsteady hands.

"Please don't kill me," the turian whispered, his voice trembling, "please. I've done nothing wrong."

"Do it now Lambda, there's no room for indecision on my team."

Lambda gritted his teeth, ignoring the screaming of his conscience as he squeezed the trigger, silencing the turian's pleas as the blast blew his brains over the back wall. Lambda gasped and dropped the weapon, barely noticing Epsilon come into the room.

"Data's copied, sir. Three OSDs worth, I've given them to Iota. The medigel's doing its job, he said he should pull through. Alpha has the prototypes."

"Good work, soldier," Sigma smiled, "now it occurs to me that we need to make this look like the work of terrorists, but a terrorist operation is bound to suffer casualties, and we don't have any."

"Sir?" Epsilon asked, puzzled

"Well, you're the only one with commercially available armour. I guess we've found our scapegoat." Sigma's voice was cold as he fired his pistol, at point blank range the barrel was within the suit's kinetic barriers, and the projectile went straight through Epsilon's head. He grunted as his brains joined those of the scientists splattered around the office and slumped to the floor. "When I tell you to kill a turian because he's a god-damned turian you bloody well do it!" Sigma screamed as he fired another round into Epsilon's corpse. "Lambda," Sigma whirled round to face the shocked soldier, his face a mask of rage, "strip the body of anything that could identify him and take his weapon and omni-tool, then get your ass back to the APC. We leave in twenty minutes, so you'd better run. Do you understand me, soldier?"

"Sir, yes, sir." Lambda said sharply, saluting. Sigma fired a few more rounds into Epsilon's body and strode out the room. Delta turned as he left, to give Lambda a sympathetic look before he accompanied the rest of the team.

Lambda stood in shock for a few moments, he had assumed they were going in to stop terrorists, only to find that he was the real terrorist in this operation. He stared in horror at the turian he had killed, a sick feeling rising in his stomach as the guilt mounted. Worse was the memory of how instinctive the kill had been, the order came and he complied. Was this the true burden of Cerberus, that to protect humanity, one had to sacrifice one's own? Fighting the urge to throw up, Lambda knelt down by Epsilon's motionless corpse. He removed the omni-tool and pistol, and then put his hand under the damaged chest plates. The tightness of the armour was something of a hindrance, but eventually Lambda found what he was looking for: Epsilon's dog tags. Only seen when a Cerberus operative was killed, they represented the man's identity, buried under the armour.

Snatching them from the dead man's neck, Lambda wiped the blood off the thin metal plate.

Kowalski

Edward L, B –

171 63 8224

SANMC SPEARS 3rd Division

With a jolt, Lambda realised that Epsilon had served in the same division as he had before joining Cerberus. He stuffed the dog tags in a pocket on his belt and began a swift jog back to the APC. How much more did Lambda have in common with Edward L Kowalski, could their fates be the same?

Lambda said nothing as he climbed aboard the APC, nothing as Sigma congratulated him on a job well done, nothing as they boarded the transport craft.

"Well done, Lambda. You're a true Cerberus trooper now, the best of the best." Tau said with a smile.

Lambda gave a small smile back, and nodded his head, but still he said nothing, none of the squad seemed to feel the least remorse for Epsilon's death, a comment from Alpha summed up how they felt,

"He didn't have the mindset. Training doesn't count for shit if you haven't got it right up there."

As the men nodded their agreement, all Lambda could do was wonder if being the best was worth selling his soul the way these men had.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Citadel Station, Widow System, Serpent Nebula**

**2183**

The elevator doors hissed softly as they opened, and Benjamin Lawson stepped out onto a dimly lit concourse, stifling a yawn as he did so. Having spent the entire day running around the Citadel, he was becoming weary, and the amount of time he had spent inside elevators was certainly not helping. Still, this was the last site he had to visit for the day, and the nature of the work meant he could not begrudge his obligations.

He was met at the other end of the concourse by a man dressed in very similar fashion to his own, as both were members of the Citadel Security force and thus in standard fatigues. Though not in the blue and black body armour of patrolling constables, they were still required to wear the jumpsuit of casual duty or Presidium guard officers, a tightly fitted blue t-shirt and matching blue combat trousers, along with black weapons holster. Lawson approached the other man, a brief nod of the head sufficing for a greeting.

"Evening, Ben," the other man said, his voice noticeably hoarse, "This your last shift?"

"Yeah," Lawson replied with a sigh, "how bad does it look?"

"It's the worst one I've seen, but I've only worked two other sites. They say this probably the worst."

"So I hear, but Third District was certainly a mess."

"Do you want to take a look?" The officer said, gesturing to the overlooking balcony at the end of the concourse. Lawson followed, and found himself gripping the railing hard as he looked over it. The tangled mess of wreckage and debris before him was all that remained of an entire district. He was looking at a segment of one of the Citadel's massive Ward arms, one that had been utterly ruined by the recent battle that had so shocked the inhabitants of the station. Lead by a colossal sentient dreadnought, a fleet of geth ships had assaulted the space station like a swarm of locusts. Though most of the casualties were soldiers of the Citadel's defence fleets, and the majority of them in the opening minutes of the conflict, the battle's climax had seen considerable damage to two of the station's habitation arms, known as Wards.

The dreadnought had ultimately been destroyed, but only after it was able to attach itself to the Citadel's command tower, well inside the area enclosed by the Ward arms. The debris that had resulted from its destruction had scattered all over the two nearest Ward arms, and some areas of the Presidium ring, causing massive devastation, and numerous civilian casualties. Though C-Sec was a law enforcement agency, and Lawson an investigative officer, all those serving in an official capacity had been drafted in to aid in the clean up, and Lawson had spent the past four days doing exactly that.

The district he was now overlooking had been primarily occupied by elcor and volus citizens, many of them families of the two races' diplomatic corps and had been almost totally buried under the twisted ruins of the defeated starship, and fires still blazed deep in its heart. The station's collective medical personnel had been the first on the scene, and there were camps dotted around the perimeter where exhausted medics were still working to treat the wounded.

"Looks grim." Lawson said after a long pause

"You're telling me," The other officer said, rubbing his eyes, "come on, there's a speeder waiting for us."

"Who's running the operation here?" Lawson asked, as he followed the other officer again down a flight of stairs.

"Sergeant Terrias, last I heard."

"He's a turian, right? I think I've heard of him." Lawson said.

"Yeah, a pretty by-the-book guy, but I guess a lot of turians are." Lawson's companion said with a smile. At the bottom of the stairs was a small landing leading to rounded hole in the wall of the building they were currently in, where a row of small flyers stood, many of them bearing the scars of recent excursions into the crash site. Standing by a particularly scorched looking speeder, whose blue C-Sec markings were only just visible on the blackened metal, were two others in the blue jumpsuits of C-Sec officers. The one on the left was a reptilian salarian, whose large black eyes were fixed on the speeder he was attempting to clean, while the other was a tall, avian turian, whose stance was one of boredom, the slouched shoulders hinting at his physical tiredness.

"Hello there, Richards, this Lawson?" The turian said as he caught sight of the newly arrived pair.

"Yeah that's right, he's just come down from Site C." Richards said in a flat, business-like tone, devoid of the cheeriness with which he had greeted Lawson."

"Site C, that's Third District right? How's that looking?" the turian asked, a note of impatience in his voice.

"A lot better than it was, but it's still a bit of a mess," Lawson said, "they say they've accounted for everyone in the District now, though, so they can start bringing in some heavier equipment, mass effect cranes, that sort of thing."

"Ah," the turian cocked his head in his species' equivalent of a nod, "they're still looking for people here."

"Yes, I know a few of the C-Sec biotics," the salarian chimed in, his speech quick as was the case with most of his species, "they've been working nonstop since the operation began to lift debris off people. One of the human L2s nearly had a brain haemorrhage."

Lawson winced at this, he had a good friend in C-Sec's biotic division, who also used the human L2 implants. He had seen first hand the sudden painful headaches he suffered from when the stress got too much, or the horrifying muscle spasms when he lost concentration while attempting to use his unusual abilities. The thought of how overworked the limited numbers of biotics on the Citadel must be was more than a little scary.

"Most of the asari officers are down on that site," the salarian went on, gesturing, "they seem to be coping quite well though."

Lawson was about to comment on how much more comfortable the asari were with the phenomenon of biotics when the turian cut in.

"Perhaps we should get Lieutenant Lawson down onto the Ward and get him settled in?"

"Of course, captain," the salarian relented, opening the speeders canopy and showing the two humans to their seats. The flyer's interior was cramped, but the journey down to the district itself was blessedly short, the salarian's sudden direction changes were doing little to ease Lawson's headache.

The flyer set down a short distance from a twisted pile of wreckage that had once been an apartment block, the burned out shell of a geth dropship squatting amid the debris. The salarian directed Lawson through the holographic line that cordoned off the area, where two more turians and an asari stood, hands gesticulating in a heated discussion. As Lawson approached, he caught the tail end of the debate.

"Sergeant, my people haven't stopped working for eighteen hours straight, this is too much for them." The asari said, her anxious voice almost a plea.

"All I'm asking is for one last effort, Thania. Officer Karnux believes there may be survivors in critical condition under there, but I can't risk moving the dropship until we've secured its core, and the cranes just don't have the precision to pick around it without risking a collapse." The taller of the two turians replied, his voice strained.

"Are you ordering me to do this, sir?" the asari muttered, her head lowered. The turian hesitated, the mandibles on his jaw flicking in and out as he thought.

"This is still a volunteer operation. Thania, you know I can't make it an order, but I need you here." He sighed

"Goddess damn it, Terrias," the asari shouted angrily. Lawson was momentarily taken aback, he had never seen an asari lose her temper before, "don't you dare try and guilt-trip me! I've done all I can, I can't concentrate anymore. I'm not going to risk lifting any wreckage only to have it fall back on the poor bastard I'm trying to save when I black out, and the same goes for my team."

"That's Sergeant Terrias, Thania. You're way out of line!" Terrias shouted back, his own temper considerably frayed, "But I'm going to put it down to exhaustion and let it slide, now get out of my way so I can find someone able to help before I take your badge!"

"Sergeant-" the other turian attempted to cut in and placate his superior officer.

"Shut up, Karnux," Terrias barked back as the asari stormed off, "make yourself useful and find out where the hell this Lawson is."

"I'm right here, Sergeant," Lawson piped in as he stepped closer to the worn out turian, "how's it looking?"

"You've got eyes, haven't you? Look for yourself! Heat scans suggest we've got half a dozen volus still alive under there, but all the biotics here are spent, and we can't get the cranes in," Terrias let out a slow breath and appeared to calm down some, but when he raised his head again, his eyes were wide and unfocused, "I just don't know what to do." He trailed off.

Lawson rubbed his eyes, he realised there was only one thing left to do.

"So we do it ourselves," he said flatly, "there's a good group of us here, we can lift some of that off by hand."

Terrias looked him in the eye. For a moment, he frowned and opened his mouth as if to argue, but his head slumped and he nodded slowly.

"Let's get going then."

*****

Three hours later, Lawson felt tiredness unlike anything he'd felt before. Every muscle in his upper body ached, his hands were blistered and raw and he could barely see through the dust covering his protective visor, but some inner reserve saw him push on. A salvage team had arrived a little over an hour earlier, as the pile of debris they had moved had already grown large enough to require more permanent removal. But their efforts had not been without cost, Lawson had been forced to call in a medic team after Terrias had collapsed from exhaustion. With so many of the Citadel's medical staff tied up dealing with the scores of wounded from the battle, or those recovered from the ruins, Lawson had managed to pull some strings to get Terrias on one of the Alliance vessels docked at the Citadel.

The salarian who had flown Lawson and Richards in, and who was now in charge of the local C-Sec agents gave a yelp of surprise,

"I've found one! Karnux, get over here!"

Officer Karnux had received basic medical training during his compulsory military service, and was acting as a medic for the resource stretched C-Sec personnel in the area. His nerves were in tatters, however, having already come across the bodies of three dead volus in the wreckage, the corpses horrifically maimed as their pressure suits ruptured, and Karnux' boots still bore traces of volus blood and guts.

"Tell me he's alive, Valiot, I'm not picking up another body, I won't!"

"He's alive, damn it! He's breathing, but it's faint. I think his suit's damaged!"

Lawson listened to the shouted exchange anxiously, they were all in need of some good news. If they could pull just one survivor out of this wreckage, their labour would be worth it. He began to clamber across the debris to Valiot, watching as Karnux tried to run across. A piece of rubble gave way, and Karnux fell with a yell of surprise.

"Take it easy, Karnux," Lawson said as he picked his way across to the fallen turian, "what the hell good is it if you go and get yourself put in the hospital?"

As quickly as they dared, the two men made their way to trapped volus. Lawson was shocked to find that not only was he alive, he was conscious, mumbling through ragged, raspy breathing.

"Lielle… where… where is Lielle? She was… she.."

"It's alright," Lawson said, doing his best to sound reassuring, "we've found you, you're safe now. Can you tell me your name?"

"Name?" the volus wheezed, the light on his face mask blinking faintly, "Gokun. I am Gokun. Must… find…. Lielle!" he spluttered, his voice becoming louder.

"We're going to do everything we can, but we've got to get you out first," Lawson turned to the salarian, "we'll get him out, Valiot. You go and see if you can find a stretcher, and alert the med camps that we've got a survivor. Karnux, grab the end of that girder, carefully now."

Ten minutes of near frantic work later had the volus freed, revealing one badly fractured leg, and the other foot mangled to the point it was unrecognisable. Lawson briefly considered just how lucky this volus was. Their species was unable to survive in the atmosphere that was common to so many of the Citadel races, requiring pressure suits and breathing apparatus when dealing with the other species. But specially constructed habitation blocks such as the one Lawson was currently digging through were able to recreate the atmosphere and pressure of the volus homeworld, allowing the residents to live normal lives at home. But the sudden destruction of the building had caused many of the inhabitants to be exposed to the Citadel's standard atmosphere without their environment suits, Lawson had come across countless corpses in his search, bloated by sudden depressurization and discoloured by the inhalation of gases toxic to them. That this volus had been in his pressure suit at the time of the disaster was near-miraculous.

This left Lawson and the other C-Sec officers with little hope that they would find the survivor's companion; but they had to try. Lawson and Karnux carried the motionless volus across the debris, and outside the cordon to where Valiot had the flyer and a stretcher ready. The volus was placed carefully on the stretcher and loaded into the flyer, as Valiot rubbed his hands frantically.

"Get him out of here." Lawson ordered simply, the salarian nodded and climbed into the pilot's seat. Rubbing his aching shoulders, Lawson turned slowly and began to head back to the ruins.

"Detective Lawson?" a double toned voice came from behind him, the voice of a turian. Lawson turned once again and found himself staring at the bright green eyes of another investigative officer, Detective Chellick. "I've been sent here to relieve you. You look dead on your feet."

"Jesus, Chellick am I glad to see you," Lawson smiled, a gesture the turian returned, in his fashion, "I thought you were tied up with that smuggling ring?"

"We caught a lucky break," Chellick's grin broadened, "they tried to take supplies directly from one of the storage camps just as an entire C-Sec team walked in to pick up a case of medi-gel. And that officially ends the wave of post-battle crime and looting, as far as HQ is concerned. So I get to join in the fun down here." Chellick grimaced, in hindsight the comment seemed in poor taste, dripping in irony though it was.

"Yeah, well I don't envy you. We just pulled one lucky volus out of the wreckage over there. He was conscious, even, I don't want to imagine what that must have been like. He's lost a friend though, a female named, uh, Lielle I think. I'm not gonna hold out much hope, but if you find her…" Lawson trailed off.

"Of course, Lawson, we'll do everything we can."

"Thanks, Chellick, I appreciate it." Lawson gave another tired smile, "Richards, Karnux!" he called out, "We're done for the day, go get some rest."

*****

Lawson's apartment was in a mid-sized district on the Citadel's fourth Ward arm, a number that was essentially arbitrary for anything other than distinguishing it from the third and fifth arms either side, as the numbers were applied clockwise, obviously only accurate in position for a certain orientation of perspective. The district had been largely vacant since the batarians had seceded their territory from Citadel space and closed their embassy, but even before this it had scarcely been filled, home to a few krogan and quarians before they too largely vanished from the Citadel.

In the few decades since their entrance into Citadel space, the district had seen a population boom as humans flocked to the Citadel, eager for a chance to live right at the heart of the galactic community. Though many of the government employees, including members of the military able to afford an apartment there, lived in on the first Ward, the Seventh District of Ward Arm Four was home to more everyday humans, from merchants and lawyers to restaurant owners and C-Sec officers like Lawson, it had began to take on an atmosphere very much like that of a busy Earth city. Segregation of species was discouraged, both on the principles of equality and because many felt that living in communities of one species utterly defeated the point of living on the Citadel in the first place; while humans were a majority in the district, a little under half the population were still non-humans of various species.

Lawson's apartment was on the third floor of a spacious but small block, at one end of an L-shaped corridor, opposite a turian and asari couple. The turian was the vice-president of a moderately successful food import company that ran through the stardocks two districts across, and his spouse was a chef whose restaurant had contracted with the company. Lawson was on friendly terms with the couple, to the point of co-hosting a drinks party for some workmates a few weeks before the attack.

Stepping through the door, Lawson wasted no time in crossing the room and slumping on his bed, every fibre in his body screaming their tiredness. Sleep came quickly, and Lawson just lay there, fully dressed for a full five hours before the aches in his body woke him up. After ingesting a few pain pills and several glasses of cold water, Lawson took a shower, the hot water pounding out the kinks in his muscles, and clearing the haze of sleep.

Having dried off, and poured himself another glass of water, Lawson took a seat at his modern styled steel desk and switched on his terminal, still only wearing a bathrobe. Almost straight away, he was greeted with an alert informing him of the status of his message inbox. The most recent one must have come through while he was asleep, it was from Chellick and it brought good news. An engineering team had finally arrived to secure the geth dropship's drive core, and mass effect cranes had been brought in to remove both the ship and the a good deal of rubble; three more volus had been found alive, among them Lielle, missing companion of the volus Lawson had helped rescue earlier. Of the six heat signatures that had been detected when Lawson had arrived, that meant two were now dead, but hope had been small anyway; Four survivors from such destruction was near miraculous, and the morale boost it would give other teams was not to be understated. That block was cleared, but Site A still had a long way to go before the efforts there were finished.

Following this was a general email to all C-Sec agents informing them of what Chellick had already told Lawson: the smuggling ring that had been lifting supplies during the chaos of post-battle relief efforts had been definitively shut down, and its members taken into custody.

Finally, there was another email directed solely at Lawson, containing reassignment details. Despite what was going out on the extranet news broadcasts, the problem of smuggling had not been entirely stemmed; C-Sec believed another organisation had been running the show, and would attempt to funnel more key supplies out of the Citadel. Lawson grimaced as he saw the kind of supplies that had already been stolen, save for a few trivial items, the roster listed mainly medical supplies and weapons, including one of the caches of recovered geth weaponry, despite the heavy guard those caches had been under.

The content of the email's text grew more worrisome as Lawson read on, detailing the incapacitating agent that had been used to render the guards unconscious, and noting one Sergeant Shapet Derbon, a salarian, as unaccounted for – kidnapped. For anyone to have infiltrated a chemical weapon into the Citadel was almost unthinkable, even in the immediate chaos after the battle. To have then used it, abducted a high ranking C-Sec officer and escaped with him and a classified cache of weapons recovered only hours earlier, all without detection was simply stunning.

Lawson's assignment was clear: track down the source of this breach and seal it, before any more damage was done. Lawson reached across the desk and picked up a small, black omni-tool. Tracing his hands across the familiar contours of the device's slightly worn casing, he thumbed its activation switch and navigated through the holographic interface until he found the program he required, a quick task given that the program's frequent level of use meant it was placed high on the omni-tool's program library hierarchy. As the tool activated the program, the orange interface hologram shrank back to a sliver around Lawson's wrist, as it would go unused.

"Case reference: BL-161083-C," Lawson said to no one but his omni-tool, "status: open. I'm to investigate a stolen cache of weapons, along with the disappearance of C-Sec officer Shapet Derbon, full name unknown, salarian. No leads at this point. I will investigate the crime scene tomorrow, and collate together information collected from other C-Sec units. Case opened as of 0732 Citadel time."

Lawson had felt more than a little foolish the first time he had made such a recording, on his first case after becoming a C-Sec investigator, but his instructor had ensured him it was a rewarding practice to document each case verbally, and though many of his peers saw it as something of an archaic method, Lawson had found it made making a final case report significantly easier. The numbering system was, by Lawson's own admission, fairly arbitrary, consisting only of his own initials, the date he opened the case on, and whether he was on or off the Citadel at the time. He had, however, been pleasantly surprised when he saw a fellow investigator had been so taken with the idea that he had started to use the same system.

The omni-tool itself had been with Lawson since he had started as an investigator, and had been cutting edge at the time he had received it. Though software updates had allowed it to remain competitive through the years, it had lost its elite status and been surpassed, the latest offerings from the asari Serrice Council consortium being notable examples. In Lawson's mind, however, it remained superior to the Armali Council tools that were standard issue in C-Sec, even if its decryption skills were lacking in comparison to the newer devices.

With his new case now, at least officially, opened, Lawson set off to his kitchen unit in search of breakfast.

Two hours later, Lawson was sat in a comfortable but limited lounge area outside C-Sec's secondary lab facility; limited mainly in the sense that it lacked any form of distraction to pass the time. He had been waiting for half an hour, having been told by a lab technician that the results of the tests they were running would be ready in ten minutes, and tinkering with his omni-tool had only gone so far to relieve the boredom.

A door hissed open, and Lawson looked up hopefully, only to see that it was the door to the main reception that had opened, not the lab door. Lawson was about to return his focus to the ever-present omni-tool when three figures stepped through the open door. Though he did not recognise the asari, or the human woman, he certainly recognised the turian – Chellick, once again.

"Chellick?" Lawson spoke up before he even realised he'd opened his mouth.

"Lawson?" Chellick replied, his voice carrying a tone of mild surprise identical to Lawson's own, "two days in a row, Ben? I may just start to suspect you're following me."

"Hey, I was here first," Lawson replied with a grin, "they got you back to regular work too?" he asked, his eyes flicking between the two women beside Chellick. On paper, the turian's job was little different from Lawson's, but he knew all too well that Chellick ran an exceptionally tidy undercover squad, though frequently Chellick would deal with informants himself.

"Of course," Chellick said, raising his hard brow with a suddenness that seemed to make his bright green eyes flash, a turian analogy to a wink, "have you met Hellissa?" he gestured to the asari, who wore a loose, flowing green gown over a darker tight-fitting suit, which to Lawson's eyes resembled a cross between a human catsuit and a stripped down version of his own C-Sec body armour. Her face was as serene and composed as all the asari Lawson had met, so human in its form despite the blue skin tone and the twisted skin folds on the back of the head, and shone with an ethereal radiance that Lawson remained unsure was really there or just his mind applying visualisation to the asari's inherent grace.

"She's a dancer, would you believe? And she's agreed to help me with a new investigation I'm starting." Chellick went on. Lawson regarded her again, taking note of the lithe but full figure barely concealed under the bodysuit, and her careful poise. But he saw with a trained eye that while supple, she seemed too large in build to be a dancer, her stance just a little too rigid and formal. Her pale blue eyes were what truly gave her away, however, set among the serenity of her even face, they seemed too sharp and focused, and with a jolt Lawson realised that she was looking at him with the same searching, analytical gaze that he was regarding her with.

"Well that's good news," Lawson said, a hint of mirth in his voice, "but I wasn't aware there was much crime in the Thetessian House." The asari gave a soft chuckle, flowing over her lips like water on a stone. The Thetessian House was one of the Citadel's most glamorous and well-renowned performance theatres, and the dancers and singers that performed there were among the best in Citadel space – and almost universally asari. Hellissa rewarded Lawson's compliment with a warm smile, and Chellick gave a brief laugh of his own.

"I never realised you could be such a charmer, Ben, I may just have to make use of you one day."

"Alright, so long as you never try to pass one of your informants past me," Lawson said with a smile, "I may not have had to in a while, but I can still spot your informants when I look properly. So where did you find her, commandos?"

"No, though that's an entertaining idea. Hellissa?"

"I'll put that down as another attempt at flattery, Mr Lawson," Hellissa said, her voice light, "but I'm actually from a multi-species security agency working through asari space and the Attican Traverse, and I've got very little information on me in government databases, so I'm in a far better position to infiltrate a Citadel crime ring than an asari commando. And if you don't believe the detective, believe me when I say I can dance. Very well." Hellissa smiled again.

"Oh, I believe you. So where are you going, Chora's?" It was Chellick who answered Lawson's question.

"No, since Fist's removal it seems the Citadel's criminal underbelly has moved on to less high profile venues. Hellissa's going into the Silent Serpent bar, they've a good rotation of asari and human dancers, and a less than healthy volume of criminal patrons. And we both know a barely clothed asari can be very hard for your average criminal to resist spilling things to." Chellick said, green eyes flashing again.

"Can get quite rough in there, if I hear right," Lawson said pointedly. Hellissa simply shrugged, "and what about your other friend?" Lawson looked over the woman on Chellick's other side, taking in her pale hazel eyes and light cream skin, her mouth curled to one side in a half smile. "she's also very pretty, but judging by her more serious composure I'd say you were trying to get her in as a personal assistant. With her hair tied up like that, and a pair of glasses, I'm sure she'd look the epitome of professionalism."

At this, Chellick laughed again, his eyes glittering.

"Detective Lawson," he said, stifling his laughter, "allow me to introduce Kate Harrow. She's helping with my investigation, but she certainly isn't an informer. Kate?"

Kate smiled again and extended her hand, which Lawson took, "I'm with the Financial and Economics Crime squad, C-Sec Investigation division." She said, and her grin widened as Lawson was momentarily taken aback.

"Well what can I say, clearly I'm not as good at reading people as I let myself think." He said cheerily.

"Don't worry about it, Lawson. She nearly had me going too when she was assigned to the case," Chellick chimed in, "nearly." He repeated with a smirk.

With that, the turian detective said his goodbyes to Lawson and ushered his companions across the lounge and into a conference room on the other side. Lawson was about to retake his place on the seats when a voice came from behind him.

"Detective Lawson, we're ready for you." Lawson turned to see a salarian stood at the door to the laboratory, a lab coat wearing asari next to him.

"I must confess, things have not turned out quite the way I would have expected them." The salarian said, his lilting voice containing an unquestionable tone of surprise. "Whatever chemical was used to incapacitate the officers guarding the supplies was exceptionally fast acting and reactive. Medical examination showed no traces of the agent remaining. A lack of physical evidence forced us to turn to more… abstract clues."

"Like what?" Lawson asked, "security cam footage?"

"Ah," the salarian gave an approximation of a human smile, "a good suggestion, and indeed that was our next port of call. Unfortunately, the cameras were cut long before the theft took place."

"They were cut?" Lawson queried, surprised, "and no one noticed?" The muscles in the salarian's forehead tensed, drawing the two bony peaks on his head together and narrowing the top of his eyes, an expression of disapproval in salarians.

"Detective," he said, his tone a perfect counterpart to his expression, "the majority of C-Sec is still attempting relief work on the damaged areas of the Citadel. Manning a bank of monitors to watch for an event that may or may not happen is hardly an efficient use of time under the circumstances."

"I suppose," Lawson sighed, "it still seems a little sloppy to me."

"Well, sloppy or not, there is nothing that can be done about it now," the salarian said pragmatically, "you were close to our solution though. We attempted to pull audio records from the guards helmet sensors."

"Excellent," Lawson smiled, "what did you find?"

"Very little," the salarian said pointedly, "the thieves were exceptionally thorough. They wiped the helmet recorders."

"They wiped them? How?"

"With a signal from an omni-tool, rather similar to a tech mine I suspect."

"I didn't even know that was possible."

"Oh, anything's possible if one is determined enough." The salarian said, a point of view that seemed to Lawson rather too vague for one of his kind. "That is, however, irrelevant. We were able to salvage some data."

"Well that's good!" Lawson exclaimed, "did you find anything about the captured officer?" The salarian blinked twice, and his left eye narrowed slightly. Surprise, perhaps, Lawson wondered.

"You are remarkably astute, Detective," The salarian said simply, "the information we were able to retrieve, the information that was pertinent to the case at least, was indeed with regards to our missing officer. And here is where things begin to differ from my expectations."

The salarian sat down at a console next to the asari scientist, who thus far had remained silent. He manipulated the controls, bringing up a holographic projection above the console; the image was of a transparent orange line. Further use of the controls gave rise to a distorted, incoherent noise through a set of speakers at the console's base, the orange line jumped erratically at the sound, great peaks forming, themselves broken into many other smaller deviations.

"As you can see and hear, there was a lot of static interference from the attempted wipe. Three hundred years of work have left my colleague Alleya here with a good deal of expertise in this field."

"One can find a hidden meaning to any noise with enough patience and the right software," the hitherto mute asari Alleya said softly, beaming, "this one wasn't even particularly difficult."

Alleya typed in a few commands of her own, and the noise became distinctly clearer, while the dancing orange line became smoother and more defined. Though a strong buzz remained, Lawson could now pick out what sounded like voices. Suddenly, the high, clear voice of a salarian broke the discordance.

"-orning, Kerrivus. I'm your relief." The static buzzed strongly for a moment.

"Oh, hey Derbon. I didn't know you were on duty." Came the muted double toned voice of a turian.

"Shift change, decided an asari was more useful down on the site than me."

"That's fair enough I-" the turian was interrupted by a high pitched whirring audible even through the harsh static. "Do you hear – ugh!" The static buzzed even more strongly, and the sound of the turian clattering to the floor was barely audible. Lawson glanced sharply at Alleya, who merely shrugged and gestured at the console.

"This is Shapet, move in. All the guards are-" The squawking of the static reached a crescendo, and the sound lost any distinction.

"We took that recording from officer Kerrivus' helmet," the salarian said, the clarity of his voice seeming almost strange to Lawson after the warped conversation he had just heard. "The recorder unit was wiped immediately after that."

"So Shapet wasn't kidnapped?" Lawson asked, stunned.

"Indeed not, it would appear he was an inside agent and that the kidnapping was staged."

"Jesus!" Lawson cried, "what does that mean?"

"It means, Detective, that he can be tracked."

"Right, where did he have access to?" Lawson's voice quickened.

"I don't have that information, Detective. I believe such investigation would be your job."

"Yeah, thanks." Lawson said sharply, groaning inwardly with mild embarrassment. Scientists were all the same: all brains and no tact. "I guess I'd better get on that then. Thanks for the information."

"Not at all, Detective. It is my job, after all." The salarian said, Lawson was unsure whether or not he saw the trace of a smile.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**Noveria, Pax System, Horse Head Nebula**

Robert Deyton's pace quickened as he walked through the streets of Port Tamlin, turning the collar of his jacket up against the cold. Though the town was climate controlled, the sheer size of the place did not allow complete protection from Noveria's bitter chill. Port Tamlin was essentially an annex to the planet's capital, Port Hanshan, the influx point of many of the corporate focused world's wealthy customers and visitors, as well as home to thousands of company workers and board members, but Tamlin itself fuelled Hanshan's activity, it was the home for those who kept the opulent capital functioning.

Containing Port Hanshan's power facilities, storehouses, sewage works and other civic amenities, Port Tamlin's docks were also the source for most of Hanshan's primary consumables, food being the most important of these, given the scarcity of Noveria's still developing hydroponic farming industry. But despite its necessity for the capital's wellbeing, Port Tamlin was frequently overlooked, and its denizens treated almost like second-class citizens, making many of them as bitter as the winds on the frozen peaks outside.

Deyton turned off from one of the main roads onto a side street that took him towards Hanshan via the Tamlin docks. Looking up, he saw a group of dockworkers congregated around a stack of crates from a recent delivery. They were all male, all under the age of thirty, Deyton guessed, and all human. They were also all white, though this alone hardly bothered Deyton. As he approached, he saw one of them, a tall skinny individual in a thick, but somewhat tattered white jacket, nudge the man next to him and say something, his eyes still pointed in Deyton's direction.

"Ah, hell no." Deyton muttered to himself, he had caught the look in the man's eyes. By the time he had taken a few more steps, the five men were all staring at him. Deyton kept his face level and kept walking, knowing that his suspicion was probably unjustified. By the time he came close to the group, though, he knew he'd been right from the outset.

"Hey, you know what they call a black man in space?" the taller man asked loudly as Deyton walked up. One of the others, a thickset man whose stubbly beard covered a face that suggested the thickness went all the way through chuckled and asked,

"What?"

"Camouflaged." The first man sneered, causing more laughter among the group. Deyton's fist clenched, but he kept it deep in his pocket and ignored the man. "Woah, hey. Where you going, hombre? I've got a question for you."

Despite himself, Deyton stopped and turned to face the man, squaring up to him, his face composed in perfect neutrality. "So now that we know aliens exist, which pretty much proves my theory that you people are aliens, I'm curious: what planet are you from?"

Deyton found it hard believe that even in the twenty-second century, with racial divides practically eliminated, there were still people who clung to such primitive fears and prejudices. Deyton wondered how humanity could possibly hope to coexist successfully with other species, when some of its members still struggled to accept other members of their own because their skin was a different colour.

"What did you say to me?" Deyton spat, his face twisted with fury.

"Heh, look at this boys," the tall man said, "looks we've got ourselves a _sub_-human rights activist. Pauly, why don't you tell the scum where he can stick his rights? You hearing me, you filthy n-"

Deyton's fist was up before he even knew what he was doing, smacking straight into the man's face. Instantly the other men launched into action; even as the taller man fell back clutching his bleeding and broken nose, the thickset one throw a punch at Deyton, who ducked out the way and followed up with a blow to the man's stomach. Keeping his fists held high in front of his face, Deyton landed a quick succession of punches on the man's stomach and face, wincing at the pain in his hands. The man collapsed on the floor, and Deyton was forced to dodge again as one of the other dockworkers threw a poorly aimed punch.

Another man came up behind Deyton and grabbed him, though his hold was broken by a swift backwards kick into the groin, followed by an elbow in the face. As the first man came back for more, Deyton reached for the holster on his hip and pulled out his pistol, smacking his assailant with the butt of the weapon before he could tackle him. Deyton whirled round and aimed at the last standing member of the group.

"On the floor, now!" he yelled, as the man's hand went to his waist. The dockworker hesitated, and then pulled something out from his pocket. Deyton's instinct kicked in, and he pulled the trigger, firing a single round into the man's stomach. A spurt of blood shot out as the projectile struck, and with a gurgled breath he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, the object he had removed from his pocket clattered to the floor. Eyes wide with disbelief and shock, Deyton looked down at the small communications device that had fallen from the man's hands. He had not been going for a weapon, he had simply been about to call for help, probably from what equated to law enforcement on Noveria, the organisation Deyton worked for.

Deyton holstered his pistol and ran over to the man, whose face was already going pale. "Listen," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice, "it's going to be OK, I'm going to get you through this." The man coughed, and blood spattered over his chin and onto his chest.

"Help… help me!" he whispered, his voice shaking.

"Shit," Deyton breathed, "stay still, try and keep talking to me, I'm going to call for some help." Deyton reached for his own communicator, and entered in a general NLEA frequency, swearing under his breath again as he did so. "To all units in the area, this is Officer Robert Deyton, I have a man with a gunshot wound on 8th street, condition critical. Requesting medical assistance and backup." Deyton called into the device. As he turned his attention back to the wounded man, the back of his head erupted in furious pain and he pitched forwards. Training and instinct kicked in, and he rolled over the gunshot victim, using his momentum to get away from his attacker. He turned as he stood, and found himself once again facing up to the thickset man, his blood stained face and clothes adding to his fearsome image.

"What the hell are you doing?" Deyton snarled, "I'm trying to help him! I'm an enforcement agent, I have some medigel. There's not much I can do by myself but you have to at least let me try to stabilise him, he's going to die!"

"Don't you dare touch him, you black bastard!" The other man roared, fists clenched tightly, "I'm going to finish you."

Deyton went for his pistol again, but he was a fraction too slow. His attacker slammed into him, and the gun went flying out of Deyton's hand. Deyton recoiled as another punch landed on his head, and only a swift kick was able to drive the thug back. Though still on his feet, Deyton's balance was thrown, and he was only just able to dodge another punch and its swift follow up. The thug came at Deyton again, and the two ended up grappling, missed punches flying around. The man was able to get his foot behind Deyton's leg and trip him up, but Deyton was able to use his own momentum again to throw the thug over him as he fell. Deyton was on his feet first, and a hard kick was rewarded with a howl of pain as the thug rolled away, finding his feet.

"On the floor, now! Hands on your head!" Another voice bellowed. The thug whirled round, only to be greeted with a jab to the face from the butt of a pistol. He toppled backwards, and Deyton was left looking at the uniformed figure of Toby Ramos, another Noveria Law Enforcement Agent with whom Deyton had worked in the past. "Jesus Christ, Rob, what the hell happened here? These guys jump you?"

"No time," Deyton gasped, wincing as he did so, "that man's been shot, we've got to get him some help, quickly."

"There's a med-officer on the way," Ramos said, "I was just a bit round the block when the call came, so I was able to get here quickly. Med team might be too slow though, I've got some gel, but not much."

"Same, we've got to try though." Deyton said, limping over to the where the man lay bleeding. He knelt down and reached for a small capsule of medigel from his belt. Looking up, he saw Ramos had his fingers on the fallen man's neck.

"He's dead, Rob." Ramos said sombrely.

"No," Deyton breathed, "no he can't be." He reached forward and tried to press down on the man's chest, desperately trying to prolong a heartbeat that had already given out. All he received in return was a sudden oozing of blood from the wound, and he screamed in frustration. "Son of a bitch!" He cursed and slumped backwards.

"Come on Rob, let's go get you cleaned up," Ramos gave a deep sigh, "and sort these idiots out." He gestured to the unconscious men scattered over the small street. Helping Deyton to his feet, he removed a pair of handcuffs and strode over to the nearest collapsed thug. Deyton could only watch as the pain in his head pounded away.

*****

The chair he was sat in was comfortable, the share of wealth the Noveria Internal Affairs committee could donate to its new Enforcement agency was generous indeed for such an organisation, but Deyton was nonetheless in profound discomfort.

"I'm sorry, Robbie, but we can't look at any other way."

"I know, Paul, I know. I was way out of line, but the things they were saying…"

"Exactly, Robbie," Paul Dusautoir, Chief Constable of the NLEA, sighed as he set a file down on the metal desk that separated him from Deyton, "'were saying'; for an officer, particularly one of your standing to react violently to verbal abuse is absolutely unacceptable. The fact that those primitives got what they deserved does not change anything. Hell, we could have been alright if you hadn't killed one."

"I honestly thought he was going for a gun, the training just kicks in, I couldn't have…"

"I know that Robbie, I've read your report. Several times. Look, I'm on your side; the chances of running into a band of racist idiots in this day and age, on a planet this far from Earth with this many non-humans… well it staggers me, and if I had anything nearing a case, I'd through them all in the cells without a seconds thought. But how do you think this is all going to look to the public? It's their word against yours, and yes everyone who spends five minutes with any of those redneck bastards _knows_ that they're racist pigs. However, a Law Enforcement Agent simply cannot go around starting fights.

"I'm sorry Robbie, I really am, but the Internal Affairs committee has taken this all the way to the Executive Board, and they're screaming for either my head or yours. And if I go down, everything we've worked for over the past month goes with it. NLEA is relegated back to running customs, and the corporate buffoons get the ECRS guards back in play. It took us, hell it took me two years to bring out the corruption that riddled that little organisation, and in one single month on the job, you've put that in jeopardy.

"Now listen, I'm still fighting this, and you have got some allies on the Committee and the Board, but I'm going to have to let you go, at least for a while."

"Hold on," Deyton stood up, his hand making a fist on the table, "what about the case? I've been building it up solidly and we're getting somewhere, you can't just.."

"I'm sorry, Robbie," Dusautoir apologised again, "I'm trying, I am, but as it stands for now you're on indefinite suspension," Deyton opened his mouth to say something, but Dusautoir cut him off before he could argue, "_without_ pay. That's it, final word for now. I've assigned Ramos to take your case, I think we both agree it's based to keep that one quiet, and Ramos knows the full story of your suspension, enough that he can trust you to start him off."

"It's still going to take too long, Paul. Look, just let me get to the bottom of this and then you and the Board can do whatever the hell you want, but this is too damn important for me to just walk away now." Deyton said angrily.

"I've said all I've got to say, Robbie. As of now, you are no longer an active agent, and I'm going to need your badge." Deyton grimaced as he handed the small metal shield, along with the internal ID holoprojector across the desk. "I'll let you keep the gun, just promise me, and I mean promise me, you won't use it on any more civilians. Internal Affairs would have a goddamn field day."

Deyton gave a curt nod, and strode through the reinforced glass doors out of the office. In truth, he had expected worse; and being allowed to keep his gun was a strong sign of his superior's faith in him, to say that Internal Affairs would deem that 'criminally irresponsible' would be a colossal understatement. Still, Deyton knew that he couldn't keep it, for one thing he simply wouldn't need it if he wasn't working. It was just too big a risk, and he knew that secretly Dusautoir had not really meant for him to keep it, they had been words said for reassurance, and the Chief Constable's expression had betrayed his true feelings on the matter.

To Deyton's surprise, he found Toby Ramos waiting for him outside the office, leaning against the wall with a rather stern look on his face.

"You're out then?" he asked sharply.

"You knew?" Deyton replied, his voice toneless.

"I figured," Ramos unfolded his arms and straightened up, "Did the Chief tell you I'm taking your case?"

"Yeah, I'll run you my files over this afternoon, listen.."

"No you listen," Deyton bristled as he was interrupted once again, "I'd been working on the extortion case since before the transition, and now thanks to you, I have to hand it over to some rookie because the chief insists I take on your little missing specimen problem. I mean why Rob, why? Why did you have to shoot him? Do you really think trying to track some bioengineered growth that's been shipped way outside Noveria's jurisdiction is really more important to us than some Exogeni exec getting fat off money he's stolen from Noverian citizens?"

"Yes, Toby, I do," Deyton snarled in hushed anger, "these weren't just some test specimens, they were goddamned rachni clones! This wasn't the work of petty thieves or a corrupt Binary Helix employee selling off his stuff on the black market for a bit of extra cash, I'm convinced this was an act of terrorism."

"Terrorists? Here?" Ramos scoffed, "Come on, Deyton, how many times? Your conspiracy theories are no good here, why the hell would terrorists attack Noveria? The only people in those whole galaxy that give a crap about the people here _are_ the people here! It wouldn't have any effect. And rachni? Please, the krogan killed them off before we humans even started making species extinct."

"They're not going to attack here, they're going to use what they've stolen to attack somewhere else. And yeah, the krogan did kill them off, but thanks to some brilliant meddling from Binary Helix, they've been brought back from the dead. Read the report, there are even pictures of corpses recovered from the Peak 15 facility, even you won't be able to ignore evidence like that when you see it. Someone inside BH was corrupt, but they weren't selling them. Just trust me, Toby, it's important." Deyton pressed.

"Alright, alright. Listen, I know the fight wasn't really your fault," Ramos said, with a weak attempt at a reassuring smile, "and if things get tight, you know, with the suspension and all. Just… you're welcome to stay at mine, if you need it. And I'll keep you filled in on the case as much as I can, I realise how important it is to you."

"Thanks, Toby, I appreciate that. I guess I'd better clear out before the Chief decides to make the suspension a little more permanent. Good luck." The two men shook hands, and Deyton walked off, letting out a long slow breath as he left the building.

*****

Lawson's fingers raced through the orange glow of the holo-panel, his eyes scanning the projection at head height intensely. His office in C-Sec Headquarters was not a large one, but it was nonetheless private, a luxury that was scarce among the rank-and-file constables of the organisation – and enjoyed with a great feeling of self-superiority by the investigative officers.

The records C-Sec kept were simply immense. A bureaucracy that encompassed thousands of individuals across the entirety of the Citadel and surrounding space, constituted by a multitude of species from across the galaxy, all with cases pertaining to criminals from even further afield, whose crimes extended beyond properly charted space made for a vast quantity of information. VI programs could help sift through the data rapidly, finding records relevant to specific queries, but they could not interpret that data.

Currently, Lawson was gazing at the profile information for one Kaybran Demena Trast Alt Shapet Derbon, the missing salarian that had become his most potent lead. The profile appeared to conform to the standard mould one might expect of a typical C-Sec Officer. Having graduated the Demena Law Academy at the age of ten, in human years, he had almost immediately found law enforcement on the relatively small salarian colony of Kaybran to be a little too simple for his tastes. Evidently an adventurous sort, as shown by a noted enthusiasm for his job in assessments, Shapet had left his homeworld to join C-Sec as soon as the application was processed.

He had a clean record, no disciplinary action had been noted, and he seemed a rather efficient lawman. Indeed, there was no hint of any possible reason for his sudden turn to terrorism, which, of course, was what made him perfect. Lawson recognised the type, a bright young salarian officer with something to prove, and honest to a fault. It must have taken a sizeable cash transaction to have persuaded him to jump ship.

Lawson sighed. He didn't have the time to go analysing the reasons why Shapet had become a turncoat, not with a cache of lethal, classified alien weaponry missing. Refocusing himself, Lawson called up the more technical data associated with the officer. Scrolling quickly through lists of assignments and postings, technical scores and shift partners, he found what he was looking for. The list of areas Shapet had clearance to was not a long one: the secure areas of C-Sec HQ; a couple of C-Sec substations throughout one of the Ward arms; and finally, three trade mooring stations on that same Ward.

A swift tap through one of the glowing holographic keys called up Artus, the VI used by the Investigative Officers in Lawson's department.

"Good morning, Detective Lawson," the turian avatar greeted Lawson with his usual baritone, "How can I help?"

"Artus, call up the list of all traffic on mooring stations D, E and F on Ward Arm Three for the last four days. Cross-reference with times when the stations were accessed by Officer Shapet Derbon."

"One moment," Artus said in pleasant, if monotonous voice, "there are two entries that match your query, Detective. Would you like to view them?"

"Please." Lawson said hurriedly.

"08/07/83, 10:29: Officer Shapet accessed mooring station 3-E, while the asari trading vessel _Shalla Verney_ was docked. Officer Shapet responded to reports of a brawl between ship's captain and first officer. Officer Shapet apprehended Captain Silthia, on charges of drunken, disorderly behaviour. He left the station at 10:37."

"Next record." Lawson said, impatiently.

"10/07/83, 17:48: Officer Shapet accessed mooring station 3-F while a private vessel owned by Vanna Trading Limited was docked. Records indicate he has not left the station." Lawson let out a deep breath. Finally, he had the escape ship.

"Artus, apply new search filter: list multiple search terms in reverse chronological order, starting from the earliest unless specifically stated in future."

"Done." The glowing avatar said simply.

"Good. Now call up that vessel's registration and flag it on Citadel Control's database as a wanted ship. Patch me through to the senior officer assigned to that mooring station."

*****

With C-Sec beginning to finally settle after the attack, things moved with exceptional speed from there. Within three hours, Lawson had managed to obtain a small C-Sec transport ship and its three man crew for his own use, and was rocketing away from the Citadel towards the relay Citadel Control had tracked the fugitive vessel through.

"Relay is hot. Approach vector acquired." The pilot, an asari, stated calmly, baffling Lawson somewhat. He had been through a lot of mass relays in his time, space travel simply demanded it, but every time it filled him with an overpowering sense of wonder and excited fear. The idea of simply being shot instantaneously across thousands of light years was an unending source of amazement for Lawson, and the serenity with which his pilot read off the steps for a relay jump, as if it were no more out of the ordinary than walking into a lift was astounding. Whether it was simply the natural asari grace coming across, or the confidence borne from countless interstellar voyages, Lawson found the matter-of-fact tone oddly calming in itself.

Some of the apprehension must have made it into his face, for a second later, Lawson found the turian navigator addressing him.

"Shell's crossed this relay more times than you've had doughnuts; she knows what she's doing." The turian gave an unmistakably human smile, which Lawson could not help but reciprocate.

"You've been spending too much time around humans," Lawson grinned, "if you can get that much of a read off my expression. I'm hardly a newbie myself to these things, but I still find them, I don't know… eerily fascinating."

"Hitting the relay in five!" Shell's voice broke through.

"Don't you find them amazing?" Lawson asked the turian, who simply shrugged, once again earning Lawson's curiosity.

"Part of the job." He said plainly, as the coruscating intense blue light sparked outwards in a massive discharge of energy, ensnaring the relatively tiny craft and propelling it instantly to an entirely different star cluster. Lawson fought against the churning in his stomach he knew he had no physical reason to feel, only to see the turian once again with a huge grin plastered over his blue painted face.

"So what's our next move?" the salarian ensign seated behind Lawson piped up.

"We patch into the local comm buoys," Lawson answered, "classic operational security says that the thieves won't have a confirmed destination until they have the merchandise, and that getting a signal in or out of the Citadel would be prohibitively difficult."

"Makes sense, I suppose." The salarian replied, in a manner rather less verbose than the majority of his species. "So what are we looking for?"

"Any transmission that matches the operating frequency of their landing and take-off broadcasts." Lawson said, calling the frequency band up on his console.

"That's it?" the salarian said flatly, "you don't have anything else to narrow it down?"

"Nope," Lawson gave a mirthless smile, "it's going to be a long few hours I'm afraid. I'll get some coffee on."

"Cappuccino for me!" Shell, the pilot called out instantly, turning round to flash a broad grin at Lawson. "Naleb there takes his black; watch you don't put any milk in, gives him hilarious, uh, bowel difficulties." The turian merely flexed his mandibles in annoyance at the comment, before nodding towards the micro galley at the rear of the cabin.

"None for me please," the salarian said, a trace of irritation in his voice, "the stuff only makes me thirstier." He resumed tapping away at his console.

Lawson could only smile as he made his way aft. Here he was, in the middle of space, on a spaceship surrounded by a crew of aliens, and he was making coffee like he was behind a desk on Earth. It was times like this that made him truly thankful he had been born when he had.

*****

Detective Chellick gave a cold nod to the krogan bouncer as he was admitted to the Silent Serpent club, though his true identity remained a mystery to the krogan, Chellick had long ago turned the bouncer, ensuring he never had any difficulties getting in. The occasional drip feed of information he received from the towering lizard was an added bonus that made Chellick's job just that little bit easier.

Chellick had managed to work a measured heaviness into his walk, a slight sluggishness and lack of precision that suggested he had been drinking before his arrival at the club, as was common for a good number of the clientele. The green eyed turian smiled inwardly; the actor in him genuinely enjoyed his work, particularly when he knew he was doing it well. He made his way past the dance floor, through the seating area and joined the throng of customers crowding round the bar. Chellick's sobriety left him easily able to cut through the masses of drunks as they stumbled to keep their balance. He placed his hands on the bar top and looked up at the waitresses. A smiling human woman came up to him.

"What can I get you?" she said sweetly.

"I'm being served thanks." Chellick said nonchalantly.

"Oh, alright then." The woman looked a little put out as she moved on to an unsteady salarian. Chellick glanced to his left, watching the woman as she struggled to hear the babbling salarian over the noise of the music. When he looked forward again, he found he was staring at another smiling face, only this one was blue and the smile was genuine.

"Hi there, what can I get you?" Hellissa said, still beaming.

"Sarkut and Vel, please. No ice." Chellick introduced a slight slur to his voice.

"Sure thing." Hellissa turned to make the drink, giving Chellick time to have another look around the club. Over in one of the VIP sections, a trio of asari dancers were performing in front of a group of turian and human men, all of whom were clutching drinks and leering contentedly. On the second floor balcony, a pair of human dancers were chatting to a couple of excited looking salarians, whose human friend beamed as he gestured between the two. Around from them, in the more exclusive VIP section, he saw a small group of volus chattering away to each other while an asari danced in the background. Hearing the thud of the glass hitting the bar, Chellick turned back round to face Hellissa. He picked up the glass, hearing something clink inside it.

"I though I said no ice." He slurred at Hellissa, who looked taken aback, "never mind, I'll drink it anyway."

"Sorry, sweetie. It's been a long shift." Hellissa said by way of apology, "three creds please."

"Damnit," Chellick cursed, "you got change for a twenty chip? I forgot my card."

"Sure," Hellissa beamed as she took the chip from Chellick's hand, along with the thin slip of paper concealed in his fingers.

"Hey, wait a minute," Chellick raised his voice slightly, "you're one of the dancers here, aren't you?"

"That's right; I'm working bar tonight though."

"You're a fantastic dancer, when are you working again?" Chellick maintained the slur.

"Dancing all tomorrow night, sweetie, if you want to come watch. Three days time I'm dancing for a bit, but working bar early in the evening." Hellissa glanced around here, as if impatient. Chellick nodded.

"Thanks," he said, giving a drunken wave, "I'll have to come watch you soon then."

Chellick drained the glass and walked away from the bar, the 'ice cube' held in his mouth still. He placed his hand over his mouth, feigning the threat of vomiting and barged through the crowd until he found himself outside the club. As he scurried round the corner, he heard the krogan laughing. It may not have exactly been a dignified exit, but at least it had been convincing; once again the suppressed thespian brought a smile to Chellick's face as he removed the small capsule from his mouth.

Opening the slim oval, the turian found a small datacard inside and pocketed it. Between that and the new orders given to Hellissa, tonight had been a great success, but to Chellick that was just another day on the job.

*****

Ben Lawson rubbed his eyes as he let his eyes lose focus on the holodisplay before him. Deciding now was as good a time for a break as any, he leaned back in his chair and swivelled it to face forward. The ship's pilot, Shell, was just getting out of the command seat after completing another systems scan. Lawson's eyes followed her as she made her way aft.

"I'm getting myself a sandwich," she winked at Lawson as she passed, "you want one?"

"Sure," Lawson smiled, "whatever you're having."

"That'll be Dekuunan cheese then." The asari grinned back.

Behind her, Naleb had turned round and was making a face from which Lawson gleaned that elcor dairy products had a significantly worse effect on the turian's body than café lattes.

"Get me a pack of those Shrewtaa sausages, Shell?" He asked, his mandibles opening expectantly. This time it was the asari's turn to make a face.

"A whole pack? Won't do your cholesterol any good, Naleb."

"Hey, I'm never going to have an asari's figure. Why kid myself?" Naleb retorted, again with an unmistakably human smile across his face. Lawson laughed and turned back to his display. While the others monitored the comm network, Lawson was making use of their proximity to a Citadel controlled comm buoy to do some investigating of his own. His digging through Citadel records, however, was yet to prove fruitful. Vanna Trading Limited, the company that supposedly operated the vessel they were searching for, had begun as a joint venture between two asari and three volus aspiring entrepreneurs that had since grown to accommodate a number of human pilots. Worryingly, the vessel registration was not listed under Vanna's assets, nor did they have records of any ship of theirs docking at the Citadel since the attack.

Lawson tiredly supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The Citadel was in search chaos following the attack that any vessel promising relief, as this one apparently had, was given almost immediate clearance with only token efforts made at verification.

That the ship had been able to pounce so swiftly, had been able to seize the opportunity as rapidly as they had suggested to Lawson that whatever group was actually running the ship was a good deal more organised than the average pirate band. The nature of the stolen goods, coupled with this, was beginning to have Lawson suspect what would no doubt be officially considered terrorists. All this merely added more pressure on Lawson's limited team to get results fast.

Lawson sighed again as he cut off the connection with the Citadel. He made a quiet verbal note on his omni-tool of the case status, ignoring the surprised look Naleb threw him when it appeared he was talking to himself, and called up the comm traffic files. Shell returned from the galley, gracefully balancing two plates on one arm and hand while holding a pack of deep brown curved sausages in another. The pack she threw in the general direction of Naleb, who caught it deftly in one hand, fingers curled like a talon, while she delicately placed one of the plates in front of Lawson. A satisfied noise escaped Lawson's throat as he looked appreciatively at the perfectly arranged sandwich, bulging with thick pale yellow cheese. A thin layer of an unidentified red sauce graced the top side of the cheese, while a sprig of a purplish herb garnished the top, most likely some asari plant.

"You always go to this much effort for your crew?" Lawson asked, as Shell took an oversized bite of her own sandwich.

"Uh-huh!" She mumbled through the food, smiling broadly, before slumping in one of the auxiliary chairs, humming to herself. Naleb chuckled, a sound made richer by the turian double tone, and he tore into the pack of meat, devouring the first sausage like a hungry raptor.

It was just as Lawson was wondering when salarian crewman Iviall was going to pipe up, when he took a sharp intake of breath.

"Detective, I may have found them."

*****

Robert Deyton placed his empty glass back on the bar, and turned back to the viewscreen to his left. The soccer game he had been watching had gone to half time, and for some unfathomable reason, the bartender had chosen to switch over to one of the news channels rather than listen to the pundits' discourse. News on Noveria was rarely interesting to Deyton, as it consisted primarily of stock market figures, merger predictions and asset analysis; business news for a corporate world, and to Deyton it may as well have been recorded in prothean for all he could understand of it.

It had livened up in recent weeks; the story of the fall of Administrator Anoleis, the massive corruption scandal that had unravelled and the blindingly fast transition from ECRS security to Deyton's NLEA that had finally been instituted after months of Internal Affairs' effort had been entertaining for Deyton, to say nothing of the pride he had felt at being on the side that had emerged on top. Brief mention had been given to the Siege of the Citadel, but Deyton had been rather horrified to see how little anyone on the corporate world cared. Noveria was not in Citadel Space, but the apathy shown to the fate of the galactic capital by most residents of the planet was appalling. And now, the news was back to its former self – boring.

The bartender finished with another patron, and shuffled across to Deyton. He was human, but to Deyton's mind he seemed to be spending far too much time around salarians. His speech was almost as quick, and his patience as lethally short, and something in his stare reminded Deyton of the blankness he saw in the large black eyes of the amphibious aliens.

"You want something else?" he said, politeness not often the done thing on Noveria.

"Yeah, sure," Deyton sighed, wishing he could ask him to put the football back on, "I'll have… whatever's on middle wicket. Oh, and a packet of nuts."

"Middle wicket?" the bartender asked irritably.

"Beer. You know, the middle tap out of the three? Looks like a cricket stump?" Deyton responded, incredulously. He needed a vacation back on Earth at some point.

"Cricket?" the bartender asked in the same, annoyed tone of voice.

"Oh for goodness' sake, never mind," Deyton shook his head, "just the nuts and a cup of tea then." The bartender nodded and smiled. At last they seemed to have come to an understanding.

"I've got Assam, Kenyan, English breakfast and Earl Grey from Earth, Sarphan and Elletta of the Night from Thessia, Vartok from…"

"I thought this was a bar, not a café." Deyton exclaimed, cutting off the bartender in the middle of his overexcited listing. A beeping from Deyton's jacket pocket cut the bartender off before he could retort, and spared Deyton from having to make another choice. He pulled the comm unit out and thumbed the switch.

"Deyton." He said simply into it. Why work would be contacting him while he was suspended, he was not sure. Intrigue spurred him on.

"Rob, it's Dusautoir. Listen, I appreciate this is going to sound odd, but I need you to come over to the Krogan Kafe on 12th street in Tamlin. Right away, Rob."

"OK, is this official or what?" Deyton asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Just get here. I'll explain then."

"I'm on my way, sir." Deyton finished, no less puzzled as he put his comm unit back in his pocket. He looked up to tell the bartender where he could stick his tea collection, only to see the skinny bastard chatting up some asari secretary on the other side of the bar. Huffing as he got up, Deyton made his way out of the bar, vowing that from now on he would find something better to do with his suspension than spend it in corporate bars. As he left the bar, he turned back just in time to see the second half of the football kicking off. Deyton groaned as he headed down the boulevard to a taxi flyer station.

*****

Twenty minutes later, Deyton emerged from the flyer at the corner of 12th street, a usually bustling high street lined with what passed for trendy stores and cafes in Port Tamlin. Today, it was curiously empty, and Deyton was growing increasingly worried. He looked up, and realised with a sinking heart where the Krogan Kafe was; it was hard to miss the glowing holographic cordon lines, or the grouped NLEA agents standing on its perimeter.

Deyton jogged over and was immediately confronted by a hefty looking turian officer. Deyton immediately fumbled in his pocket for his ID, only to come up short when he remembered the suspension. He opened his mouth to debate the issue, but the turian got there first.

"You're Deyton? We've been told to expect you. Go right on through. The Chief Con's on the second floor."

"Oh. Alright then." Deyton was more bemused than ever as he stepped through the cordon and made his way into the building. Immediately, he was confronted with the scene of a struggle – and a violent one at that. Tables were overturned, chairs left in fragments and scattered across the floor, spilled drinks drenching the scene. Broken glass littered the counter, and it was coated in the residue of several broken drinks machines. As Deyton looked closer, he realised with shock that the drink was mingled with another fluid, a deep orange that trailed down to the floor. Deyton gasped as he saw the body of a massive krogan, orange blood in a disgustingly large pool around it, a battered looking shotgun still clutched in its outstretched hand.

"It's a lot worse than that, Rob." Deyton spun around to face Paul Dusautoir, who looked significantly more haggard than the last time Deyton had seen him.

"Worse than a mauled krogan, sir? These most have been some pretty mean hardasses to make the situation worse."

Dusautoir merely nodded as he beckoned Deyton to follow him up the stairs behind the counter. If Deyton had been unprepared for the sight of the dead krogan downstairs, it was nothing compared with the shock he now felt.

In the middle of an equally devastated room was another body. This one was much smaller, and the blood that spattered the walls and floor was a deep red. This one was human. Deyton felt his blood run cold as he saw what was left of the face; a face he recognised all too well.

"Toby!" he gaped, his head spinning. Dusautoir nodded again. NLEA constable Toby Ramos had been murdered barely a day after taking on Deyton's case.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N:** OK, so here's chapter three, and with that up I'm going to announce that ME: Repercussions is going on hiatus. I think I might have bitten off a little more than I can chew making something this plot heavy my first submission, and I'm finding myself a little uncomfortable with the story progression. So I'm going to be writing something that's a bit more of a standard. Simpler plot, better quality writing (hopefully) and not full novel length. For anyone that has bothered reading this far, well thank you and fear not – I'm not giving up on the story yet, I still aim to complete it.

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**Chapter Three**

**Comm Buoy VTD-04, Veymin System, Taurus Delta Cluster**

Lawson bolted from his chair and moved to stand behind Iviall, the salarian.

"Where?" he asked breathlessly.

"No position yet," the salarian replied, an almost irritated tone to his voice that Lawson was beginning to suspect was permanent, "I just caught a trace of them in the network logs. It went through a buoy some way from here. Hold on, narrowing it down." The salarian's head crest knitted close together as he concentrated, his fingers deftly racing through the holographic projections like an expert pianist. By now, the rest of the patrol vessel's crew had crowded round Iviall and Lawson, and the atmosphere was unmistakably tense.

"Got it," Iviall spoke up again, bringing a small stream of text to the centre of his display with a flick of his wrist, "hmm, it's a burst transmission, some encryption. Interesting. This is not a typical civilian communication."

"Get on with it, Iviall, what does it say?" Naleb butted in impatiently, mandibles flexing. Iviall turned and shot the turian a glare that seemed to be universally recognised among all the species of Citadel space.

"It hasn't decoded yet, Naleb. Rest assured that if I had the transmission, I would not waste any time before playing it." Iviall snapped.

"Sorry." The turian looked down and shuffled his feet, and once more Lawson found himself intrigued by Naleb's penchant for human gestures.

"How long, Iviall?" Lawson asked.

"A few seconds perhaps… there! Hmph, it's not much." The salarian swiped his hand through the hologram, and a disembodied voice entered the cabin through a set of speakers above the salarian's station.

"Goods secure," the voice rasped, muffled even without the static of the long range communication, "heading to your location. ETA at 1900 local time, two days."

"That's it? Damn, I was hoping for a position; a set of co-ordinates, something to go on." Lawson muttered.

"Relax, detective. The content of the message was never the important part." Iviall said, an unmistakable salarian smile accompanying the words.

"You can trace the recipient?" Lawson queried.

"Exactly. All interstellar communications are tagged with an address to filter through the network. They were clever enough to encrypt the transmission, but not clever enough to encrypt the packet data sent with it separately. I'm bringing up the packet data now." The salarian was rewarded with a sequence of alphanumeric characters, and proceeded to cross reference them with the comm buoy registry. Lawson did his best to remain patient; from the message details that had flashed up on screen, he had determined the handover to be taking place later that very day. Time had gone from a niggling worry in the back of his mind to a pressing concern.

"Got it," the salarian piped up again, his voice raised in excitement, "feeding the co-ordinates through to you now, Shell."

"Got 'em!" The asari flashed a smile from the cockpit, and immediately through power to the drive. Lawson heard the drone of the eezo drive core at the ship's rear as it fired up, and made his way back to his own seat.

"Can we make it in time, Shell?" Lawson had to raise his voice above the roar as the drive core spun up to a hard burn. The asari pilot did not turn back, but from the way she leaned back in her seat, Lawson could practically see the confidence radiating from her.

"Benefit of being on a government ship, detective," She shouted as sweetly as one could at such volume, "at full burn, we may even beat them there, depending on whatever Goddess forsaken crate it is they're flying."

Lawson smiled as the patrol ship broke through to FTL speeds, her navigation computers locked on the relay that would take them to thieves rendezvous.

"You want me to call in an assault squad, sir?" Naleb asked, left now with nothing to do.

"No time," Lawson grimaced, "you guys combat trained?"

"Four years of service in the military, detective," Naleb's mandibles tucked in aggressively, "I can handle a gun."

"I'm reasonable with a pistol, and there's a few tech mines stowed somewhere." Iviall shrugged, and Lawson merely nodded in reply.

"How are your biotics, Shell?" he called across the cabin. Locking down the control systems, the asari turned in her chair.

"Passable," she said, "I'm not exactly stunning though. Besides, someone's going to need to keep the bird in the air." She turned back to her controls without waiting for a reply.

"Right, three man fireteam it is then." Lawson decided. "I'll take point, Naleb you provide support and covering fire, and Iviall will take tech duties. Where do you keep the weapons?"

Naleb smiled that eerily human smile of his again, only this time it was tinged with a grim satisfaction. He stood up from his chair and flexed his shoulders.

"Right this way."

*****

"Jesus bat fucking Christ!" Robert Deyton swore as he knelt by the body of a man whose hand he had shaken a little more than twenty four hours before. "How the hell did this happen?"

"We don't know yet. The café was closing, there were no witnesses. We suspect multiple hitmen though, based on the, ah, damage, shall we say, to the krogan downstairs." Dusautoir's voice was level, but Deyton knew it was a façade. So far, the NLEA's first full work as the big dogs of law enforcement had seen an unarmed civilian mistakenly killed and one of its own operatives murdered. It was not the best of starts, and Deyton knew his superior must be feeling the pressure.

"Shit, sir, he was on that case for one day. One goddamned day!"

"I know, I know. You realise what this means." With a chill, Deyton realised he did indeed know what that meant.

"Holy hell! They were gunning for me?" Dusautoir nodded sternly.

"Ramos was keeping me informed, he told me he'd got onto the Alliance military keeping quarantine around Peak 15, said after getting no where, he finally received a call back."

"Setting up this little meeting, right?" Deyton grimaced again.

"Yeah. He said the guy mentioned you'd set up contact with him, and that he had the information you'd been looking for."

"Jesus, Toby, why didn't you run that by me?" Deyton breathed to the lifeless corpse. His head slumped and he closed his eyes.

"One little mistake, Deyton. That's how they get you; they wait for that one slip up." Dusautoir said sadly. Deyton believed him, the Chief Constable's years in Noveria Internal Affairs must have been something of an experience, to say the least.

"So what does this mean?" Deyton locked his eyes back on to those of his boss.

"It means that someone does not want this investigation to be seen through. It means we're going to have to take slightly more drastic measures."

"Like what, call in the Alliance? Wait, you haven't called in a freaking Spectre have you? You know that's not going to go down well here." Deyton's eyes widened.

"No, we handle this ourselves." Dusautoir's voice was cold. "The case is yours again, Robbie. This is strictly off the books. You tell no one, you report to me and me only. Understood? As far as the Executive Board, Internal Affairs and anyone else you talk to are concerned, you're suspended pending an investigation. You do what you have to, tell them you're taking a vacation. Whatever. I don't care. Just find the bastards who did this, and put a round through their heads from me. And then three more from Toby."

Deyton smiled grimly. He should have seen this coming from the moment Dusautoir had called him.

"You still got that gun I let you keep?" Dusautoir asked, frowning.

"Uh, the Kessler? Yeah, it's, uh, around." Deyton shifted uncomfortably under his superior's piercing gaze.

"Bin it." Meet me in the Hanshan hotel lounge, eight o'clock tonight. You're going to need more adequate protection, I think."

*****

Devran Tohar was a cautious man, the guards he had posted on the other side of his small office was testament to that. The nature of his position did not leave him predisposed to openly trusting others, even within his own organisation. For so many volus, wealth was the ultimate motivator, and Tohar was no exception. Wealth brought with it stability, it brought power, safety and comfort; but key among volus, it brought respect. But for Tohar, the reverse was also true. As links in a chain, they were all but elements driven to one purpose. Having just one could bring all the others.

For all his personal gains and ambitions, Tohar considered himself something of a philanthropist. He did not seek wealth purely for himself, but for his people; more than anything he desired to see the members of his species as equals. Equals who were above the petty warmongering of the lesser species. Wealth for the volus would bring that equality, in Tohar's vision there was no need for clans or leaders. But Tohar knew that to gain wealth, his people needed power. And to gain power, they needed respect. To gain respect, Tohar knew beyond doubt, they needed to free themselves of their oppressors.

The turian hierarchy had long since crushed the volus under their iron taloned heel, enforced upon them 'protection' in exchange for extorting all the wealth out of the volus they could. Tohar saw through it. He saw the turians for what they were, saw them as no one else could, blinded as they were. The turians were a race of criminals, thugs who leaned on the helpless like mob protection racket. The volus had not needed protection before the turians emerged on the scene, they had begrudged no enemy. When minor threats had emerged, the volus had turned to their warrior clans; to those Volari who had been blessed with the wisdom to devote their clans to the ways of combat, bartering their services to other clans in the time honoured volus way.

Tohar longed for those days, wished above all else that he could have been alive in that golden age of the volus. But things would change. He knew this. He had predicted with all the insight millennia of economic control could bring to a people. Tohar would resurrect the title of Volaran, claim it for his own as he lead his people to their freedom. And with that freedom would come respect; with that respect he would gain his power. And finally, as the chain was completed, he would ensure a galaxy of wealth would be bestowed on his people. As one clan, the volus would bring prosperity to the galaxy. Where there was only war, the volus would bring trade. As thoroughly as the turian military had conquered the volus, the volus economy would bring the turian soldiers to their knees.

But a Volaran needed his warriors, and in these dark days of suppression, finding them among the masses of addled accountants and bewildered tradesman was not easy. As he heard a rapping on his door, Tohar smiled beneath his environment suit. He had already done well.

"Enter." He rasped the singular word, standing from his low seat and pacing to the centre of the room. The door slid soundlessly open, and another volus stepped into the circular room. Tohar smiled again, as he looked upon his compatriot. Recruiting Quenla had been a boon indeed, a fine investment. And he had already seen a profitable return. Garhan Quenla was a brute of a volus. A towering five feet tall, Quenla rippled with muscle beneath his crimson environment suit. Tohar had gone in personally with a turian mercenary crew to retrieve Quenla from a prison transport, mowing those same turians down once Quenla had been freed had been an especially sweet moment for Tohar, one he had savoured for a good few weeks afterwards. The sight of Quenla snapping turian necks had been all the evidence Tohar needed to know rescuing him from his oppressors was money well spent.

"Our agents are in place," Quenla's thick voice burst through his environment suit, the blue light of his breath mask flickering in a venomous delta shape, "we're already getting the first reports in."

"Fantastic." Tohar uttered the single word with glee. "Are you prepared?"

"Not quite," Quenla said, flexing an unusually thick arm, "I haven't decided which rifle to use yet." Tohar smiled, mirroring the expression he knew had spread across Quenla's hidden face, if lacking the ferociousness with which Quenla adopted when smiling.

"Get your team to the ship; we have warriors without arms to bear." Tohar ordered. "And take the Crossfire." Quenla let out a shrill, cold laugh.

"Of course, I do love bringing a little irony to a firefight." Quenla strode out the way he came, leaving Tohar alone with his terminal, and the reports from his agents. Whether it was some natural instinct inherent in his species, or a virtue all of his own, Tohar felt tremendous satisfaction in the feeling of complete readiness. Finalising a plan was a great joy to him, and he began reading the reports with no small amount of excitement. The culmination of years of work was about to be revealed, and Tohar was going to savour every moment of it; just as he had savoured his first turian kill, so many years ago.

*****

As he pulled the assault rifle from its wall mounted rack, Lawson's thoughts wandered. In truth, he knew they had been exceptionally lucky so far, and this worried him. Lawson left as little to luck as he could. They had been lucky with Shapet Derbon's incompetence as traitor, with his inability to sufficiently cover his own tracks. It had been pure luck that the escaping vessel had left enough information in the comm networks for Lawson and his team to get a location, and luck that left them with hope of catching the thieves in the act.

Lawson did not trust luck, and he trusted a band of desperate thieves with a cache of geth weapons even less. As with much of C-Sec's standard equipment, the assault rifle in his hands was of turian manufacture. It was altered slightly to better fit human physiology, and with the original stock – designed for a slimmer turian build – recoil was softer than many Systems Alliance produced weapons. The Banshee model assault rifle was easier to handle, perhaps a touch more accurate than a comparable human designed weapon, but the turian refusal to compromise on firepower left the weapon with minimal heat tolerance. Sustained fire would rapidly overheat the weapon, and ammunition capacity was drastically less than Lawson would have preferred to boot. Still, Lawson supposed it fit the profile of a law enforcement weapon reasonably well, and by quirk of fate or design, the blue casing was perfectly in keeping with C-Sec's design philosophy.

"Been meaning to ask, Lawson," Naleb spoke up as he slotted a block of treated metal into the breach of his own rifle and reached for the laser module that would transform the metal into incendiary rounds, "where did you get weapons training? With that rifle, I mean. I know the IOs are meant to be current on pistols, but you're hefting that thing like a pro." He gestured to the Banshee rifle that Lawson had just cracked open.

"I did a stint in the armed response team when I first joined C-Sec." Lawson answered, smiling as he remembered the feel of a rifle in his hands. At this, Naleb broke into a smile of his own.

"Ha! I knew it. I knew you weren't a proper detective. None of that pompous arrogance, no sign of know-it-all-ism, and no barking orders to us to go confirm your hunches; you're a team player, Lawson. I should have spotted you were a fighter." Lawson laughed at the exuberance in Naleb's voice.

"Haha, I'm still a perfectly good Investigative Officer, you know. I can show you the cases I've closed if you want."

"You're a soldier at heart, Lawson, I know it." Naleb got up and punched in the access code for one of the storage lockers. Lawson, meanwhile found himself slipping back into thought and memory. Boot camp came prominently to mind, as did the feeling of pride when he'd first seen himself in a hardsuit. He remembered what it had been like to be in the service of the Systems Alliance Navy Marine Corps, and his smile broadened. Eons ago, it seemed. Gunnery Chief Benjamin Lawson emerged from years of hiding, and grimaced at the state of the weapon before him. Gunny Petrov would have chewed him up and spat him straight onto the PT circuit if he'd left a weapon in that state of cleanliness during boot camp.

Maybe he could mention it to Naleb later, he was sure the turian would have his share of war stories. Lawson thought better of it, however. It was best to keep things professional here, especially given the nature of what was now an imminent mission. As far as Naleb need be concerned, Lawson was a C-Sec man. Looking up, he saw Naleb standing there clutching a hardsuit in his pointed fingers and grinning that bizarre grin of his.

"It's only light, I'm afraid. But it's going to have to do. Standard C-Sec gear and all that."

Lawson groaned as he unfurled the light hardsuit. Aldrin Labs' Hydra II armour; the standard C-Sec gear for humans it may have been, but it was a far cry from the medium weight Guardian armour he had worn as an armed response officer, and even further from the Mantis and Predator armours he had worn as a marine.

As Lawson resigned himself to the fact he was simply going to have to rely more on cover and tactics than technology, and all too conscious of the fact it had been a long time since he had been in a proper fight, Naleb began pulling on a set of Agent armour, and his blue painted face seemed to finally find a comfort zone as he clicked the wide collared blue and black armour into place. Iviall had already donned his own set, a considerably slimmer form than Naleb's, and he was synching a number of tech mines to his omni-tool, the device's distinct blooping noise filling the small storage room.

"OK boys, we're hitting the relay. Standby." Shell's voice was all sweetness as it echoed through the ship's intercom. Lawson felt the ship lurch, and grabbed firmly onto the bench on which he was seated. Naleb snorted at the sight.

"You're just not a spacer, are you Lawson?" Benjamin gave the turian a withering glance as he replied.

"Believe me when I say I've been in some pretty rough spots in my time on spaceships. I just…" He sighed deeply, "I hate these damn relays! I mean, come on, they just… teleport you across the galaxy. Just like that. What if one breaks, huh? What if one doesn't quite teleport all of me? What if I lose a hand, or a leg or…"

"Oh, so that's what you're worried about." Shell beamed as she cut Lawson off, stepping across the bulkhead into the storage cabin with lightfooted grace. "Believe me when I speak for all females and tell you that we'll manage."

Naleb roared with laughter at that, and even Iviall let slip a brief chuckle.

"Oh, so that's how this ship works," Lawson sighed and rolled his eyes, "insubordinate piss taking of the new guy in charge. Duly noted." He laughed and winked at Shell, "who says I'd need it anyway."

"Oh, detective, I'm not human and even I know that's disgustingly forward of you," Shell said in mock disapproval, "much as I'd like to see you put your money where your mouth is, I'm spoken for anyway."

Something clicked in Lawson's head.

"He wouldn't be a human would he?"

Shell just beamed that endearing smile of hers, before uttering a single syllable.

"She."

*****

The patrol craft dropped out FTL flight several hundred kilometres out from the planet around which their comm buoy was orbiting, a smooth transition under Shell's expert control. A quick scan showed it to be an utterly inhospitable gas giant, the only reason for the buoy's placement apparently being its magnetic field, which was a convenient strength for freighter scale ships to discharge their drive cores.

Not wanting to risk giving their position away, Shell was reluctant to turn her scanning equipment to locating their renegade ship. Instead, she cooled the drive core down to a slow burn, and took the patrol craft in cautiously, passive sensors running and Iviall's keen eyes looking for anything that might indicate a hostile presence.

Lawson and Naleb stood in the vessel's small airlock, both fully suited up, helmeted and with assault rifles in hand. With his left hand, Lawson held on to an overhead rail and slowly gripped and relaxed, trying to ease some of the tension. He and Naleb had both performed boarding actions before, but none of those memories were particularly pleasant for either of them. A ship had to be full of particularly negligent people if they were unaware of another vessel clamping onto their hull, and so any boarding action was frequently met with return fire as soon as the airlock door opened. A two man boarding party hardly seemed like good odds to Lawson.

"Contact, fifty klicks away," Shell's voice was muffled by the hardsuit's comm unit, "I'm bringing us in hard and fast. Hold tight boys." The patrol ship accelerated rapidly and dove to port. Lawson found himself shifting as the inertia fought against the artificial gravity. He looked at Naleb, whose face was now devoid of the joviality he had expressed before. As of now, he was an all professional turian on a mission, and Lawson knew that could make for some cold hearted sons of bitches at the best of times.

The seconds passed, seeming all that much longer to Lawson, who grunted his disapproval as the clichéd description buried itself in his brain.

"They're holding stationary. Firing docking clamps now."

"Maybe we managed to catch them off guard." Naleb suggested as a deep thud resounded through the patrol craft. Lawson gave a slight shrug and firmed his grip on the assault rifle; his finger unconsciously stroked the trigger. A deeper boom and a shudder announced the two ships' connection. Iviall emerged from the cabin, donning his helmet and fastening the clasps. He closed the inner airlock door behind him, and nodded silently at the weapon toting C-Sec officers before him.

"Here we go." Lawson breathed. He and Naleb trained their weapons on the door, almost simultaneously deactivating the safety locks. Lawson brought the stubby smart scope up to his face, and adopted a tensed crouch, noting Naleb do likewise. Behind them, Iviall readied a tech mine.

"Hit 'em boys!" Shell's voice thundered in Lawson's ears as the airlock door hissed open. Quick work on Naleb's part had the freighter's airlock opened, and Lawson sprinted forward. Practically throwing himself behind a battered crate, he peeked over his cover and took in as much of the room as he could in the brief time he allowed himself. His caution proved needless.

"Clear." Lawson stated into his mic. Wordlessly, Naleb and Iviall moved forwards to occupy positions further forward. Lawson stood up. Evidently, they were in one of the freighter's cargo holds, and it was empty. A few scattered, open crates were all that were keeping the room from being completely empty.

"So far so good." Naleb murmured, as he swept his assault rifle across the room, paying close attention to the darkened corners.

"You reckon?" Lawson said, almost sardonically as he backed against the wall beside the cargo bay door, rifle raised up. "They must have known we were coming; if they're not ambushing us here, they'll be ambushing us somewhere else." He beckoned to Iviall and pointed at the door's control switch. Naleb took a deep breath and crouched in front and to the right of the door, his own rifle trained and ready.

Iviall threw the switch and the door hissed open. Naleb tensed and swept his rifle through his newly expanded field of fire.

"Clear." Lawson burst from his cover and moved through the door, the reassuring presence of Naleb right behind him. Lawson jinked to the left, while his turian ally broke right.

"Clear left!"

"Clear right!"

"Move up." Lawson barked, swinging around to move down the access corridor forward, towards the cockpit. Iviall ducked in behind the two former soldiers, pistol clutched in an outstretched hand as he swung it round the room.

Their advance was a slow one, the freighter had three more cargo bays clustered around the some module, and Lawson insisted they sweep each one. And as each of them proved to be just as empty as the last, Lawson's apprehension grew.

"Anyone been on a freighter of this model before?" He asked, dimly aware that he wasn't even sure what class it was, let alone its layout. He received two answers in the negative and groaned inwardly. The Hydra armour was not possessed of the kind of tactical heads up display he might have found in military grade armour, so requesting Shell upload the specs to his hardsuit's limited computer would have been just as useless. His decision was made quickly, but it was not an easy one.

"Right," he said to the two aliens, squatting beside him in a corner of the last cargo bay, "we make for the cockpit and ignore any other cabins we may come across, unless the door's open. Let's do what we have to, and do it quickly."

"I thought you didn't want an enemy at your back." Naleb's voice carried his concern.

"I don't, but I'm beginning to question whether there _are_ any enemies on this ship. And I like that even less."

The three C-Sec officers set off, maintaining their cautious advance. As Lawson had expected, the cockpit was sealed.

"Get cracking Iviall." Lawson trained his rifle on the door as the salarian broke out his omni-tool and went to work hacking the door lock, while Naleb covered the rear. As the door hissed open, Lawson fervently wished they had some flashbang grenades. On first glance, the cockpit confirmed Lawson's suspicions that the vessel was empty, but still there was a nagging fear in the back of Lawson's mind that he could not shake. "Iviall, pull whatever information you can from these terminals, Naleb and I-" Lawson stopped suddenly. The cockpit was not empty.

Above the high backed pilot's chair, Lawson saw two peaks of skin silhouetted against the reflected light of the gas giant below; peaks that looked remarkably like the crest of a salarian head. Rifle raised in his right hand, Lawson cautiously reached out and spun the chair around.

Strapped in to the chair, head slightly slumped, was the body of a salarian in a C-Sec uniform. Lawson grimaced at the sight of the slit throat and the torso soaked in green blood. It was, unmistakably, the body of Shapet Derbon. The grim visage of death was not what caused Lawson's jaw to go slack, however; nor was it the cause of the cold sweat that suddenly caused a shivering tremor in Lawson's spine. The lower half of the salarian's torso was concealed by a bulky device; a series of ominous, white rectangular blocks wired to a central metal cased box. From the device came a soft beeping, and Lawson saw with horror the thin cord that trailed limply on the salarian's lap, its connector jack conspicuously absent from a small hole on the device.

Lawson knew what the device was, and he knew that his act of turning the chair had been what activated it

"Bomb!" He yelled, and Naleb whirred round, shock plastered over his face. "Move! Get the hell of this ship!"

"One moment, please detective, I'm still pulling records."

"NOW, Iviall!"

Furiously, the salarian yanked his OSD from the terminal he had been working at and joined the other two in sprinting from the cockpit.

"Shell, fire up the drives! Get us out of here as soon as we're aboard!" Lawson bellowed into his comm as he ran, cutting off the link before Shell had time to reply. As they crossed into the airlock, a deafening boom sounded from the cockpit and the entire vessel gave a mighty lurch that threw the men to the floor. With a terrible roar, the cataclysmic sound of explosive decompression thundered through the cargo bay behind them. The emergency systems kicked in without fail, and the door to the cargo bay did it's best to slam shut. It could do no more, because Naleb had been knocked down just as he crossed the threshold, and his leg had not quite made the transition. The turian screamed as the heavy steel door rammed into his leg. Lawson whirled round just as the ship rocked again; a secondary explosion that caused the lights in the airlock and the bay beyond to flicker and die.

Fighting against the rushing air whipping around him and gasping for every last breath, Lawson forced himself into the gap and heaved the door forward, now no more than a dead weight with its power gone. Naleb pulled his leg in, screaming again as he did so. Lawson deftly stepped back into the airlock. Running by the light of Iviall's omni-tool, and with his lungs ablaze in pain, Lawson grabbed Naleb roughly around the torso and practically hurled him into the patrol ship's adjacent airlock.

Lawson dived forward himself, and the patrol craft's own outer airlock door hissed shut barely a second later. Air hissed in, and Lawson gulped it down, the pain of decompression in his ears all but deafening him to Naleb's pained groans. The ship buffeted as it tore away from its imperilled former mating partner, and Lawson felt the rumble of the drives as Shell rammed the throttle forward. Just as Lawson was beginning to breathe out the stress, the ship rocked again with such violence that Lawson was pitched across the cramped airlock and smashed into the still closed inner door.

The airlock flared with light from its tiny outer window, a brief dazzling flash that died almost as suddenly as it came into existence, as the fireball barely a kilometre away was extinguished by the vacuum of space. Lawson's heart was racing, and his breath was ragged. He closed his eyes and leant back, letting a slow breath escape past his lips in a vain effort to bleed off the stress. The air had hardly left his lungs when the airlock's inner door slid open, and Lawson fell backwards into the patrol craft's access corridor. On his back, Lawson found he was looking straight up into the blue face of Shell, her eyes wide in shock and worry.

Summoning his last remaining energy, he winked at her before passing out into blackness; his last conscious thought consumed in the hammering of his own, still beating heart and the wondrous relief that brought.

*****

Port Hanshan was a permanent hub of activity, but the approach of evening transformed it into an electrified hive of commotion, as the denizens emerged to savour the nightclub, that went a light year beyond the daytime traffic. Haggard stoke brokers crept up from the shadows of their extranet terminals, colour returned to their cheeks by a combination of showers and alcohol, or equivalent intoxicant, to redistribute their wealth in the pursuit of fun and relaxation. Executives strutted along the promenades and flaunted their money in the guise of expensive clothes and pricier women adorning their arms. In the case of those corporate money seekers who were themselves female, the opportunity to show off manifested in glamorous presentations of that week's shopping.

The bars filled, the streets heaved and it became nigh on impossible for one not to become drowned in the wealth and power play on show. Deyton had seen nothing like it before his arrival on Noveria. The icy planet maintained a parallel culture of uncaring egotism, on the whole, and while it was not the fashion to get on with everyone one met, the planet's near singular purpose tended to endow everyone with at least the respect of ones peers. Where enemies were made with ferocious abandon in the hallowed halls of business, the nightlife saw the Hanshan populace assume the façade of indifference. Even lowly civil servants, maintenance staff and junior workers could garner civility and a degree of dignity by hitting the town in appropriate dress.

For his part, Deyton genuinely enjoyed the nights on Noveria. To a select few, he may even have admitted that he was hooked on it, that it was what kept him here amid the foreboding world of the corporate giants.

Tonight, however, was different. Deyton strode down one of the boulevards, his gaze not shifting from his forward arc. Often, he would have spared a few moments to observe the frigid winds send snow cascading about the exterior of the complex, the chaotic dance of a horde of ghosts howling through the pale illumination afforded them. On this night, there was only one ghost on his mind; he was haunted by the disfigured face of a man who he had counted a friend.

Deyton was nevertheless dressed correctly for the time of day, albeit humbly in comparison to some of the dazzling get-ups on display. His loose, white patterned shirt and black chinos may not have been the pretentious, blatant statements of wealth that many of those he passed in the streets had opted for, but they were hardly cheap purchases themselves and on Deyton's frame, they seemed to exude a sophistication that their wearer remained blissfully unaware of – to him they were simply smarter than the t-shirt and jeans that made up his 'off-duty uniform'.

Deyton made his way through a crowd of salarians in bright coloured, high collared jackets and stepped into the lift that would take him to the Hanshan Hotel Bar. Though the Hanshan Hotel was not in fact the only hotel in Hanshan, it was by far the most prestigious. While its Zen garden inspired décor and spartan furnishing tended towards Noverian trendiness over comfort, it's reputation as hub of business intrigue, scandal and a forum for gossip had been assured not long after its opening. That its bar had the largest and most diverse stock of alcohol in the capital had hardly harmed its appeal.

But Deyton suspected it was more its capability for anonymity that had enticed Dusautoir into arranging a meeting there. At this time of night, the bar would be full of business men and women of every stripe. The younger middle managers and junior executives would be enjoying the readily available alcohol and conversational atmosphere before they headed off to the more clamorous clubs, where any attempts at talking would be scuppered by accumulated alcohol levels and loud music. The more senior individuals would start their evening in a similar way, but the drinks would be pricier, the conversation of higher gravity and the politeness even more feigned.

Amid the backroom politics and deals, the braying façade of the elite and the hum of drink fuelled flirting, it was entirely possible for one to conduct a rather more secretive meet and be assured one's presence would go entirely unnoticed. Deyton scanned the room as he stepped out of the glass panelled lift, and with the hint of a smile located Dusautoir almost immediately. He had chosen a table as close to the lift as possible without being on the outskirts of the large room; he was relatively easy to spot for someone specifically looking, but suitably hidden in the crowd to remain out of casual observance. There were two drinks on the two seat table, to dissuade anyone from attempting to occupy the empty seat, and to divert away any suspicion that Dusautoir was alone.

As Deyton approached, he recognised the contents of his glass as a liquid so brown as to appear black, betrayed only by glints of red in the corners of the glass as the light struck it. Deyton shrugged off the mild surprise that stirred within him and sat down. His eye still drawn to the glass, he noticed the drink was flat. Either Dusautoir had been here earlier than Deyton would have guessed, or it was being used as a mixer.

"Jack Daniels and coke," Dusautoir smiled, "hope that's ok." It was. The drink just so happened to be Deyton's preferred, at least so far as in situations where a beer was considered crass and wine too snobbish.

"Certainly is," Deyton chuckled, his surprise all the stronger for having his suspicions confirmed, "how did you-?"

"Know?" Dusautoir finished, "New Years party, I was at the bar while you were ordering. That's what you went for." Dusautoir gave an appraising smile.

"That's… impressive, sir. If a little stalker like."

"I wasn't just handed my position, Robbie, my memory happens to be one of the things that made me a good cop. And yeah, remembering what a guy drinks probably doesn't give a good impression. I trust you won't judge me too harshly on it, I didn't want to screw around here; we've got something to take care of and we can't be wasting time."

Deyton nodded an acknowledgement.

"You got rid of that piece?" Dusautoir inquired nonchalantly, for all the world sounding to Deyton like a clichéd movie mob boss, as though that were a guise that came naturally to him.

"Yeah. Stripped it and chucked the bits in three separate places in the snow." Deyton grimaced. The act of disposing of a weapon quite so casually had not been one he was particular comfortable with.

"Good. I've got you a new one strapped to the bottom of the table, so take it carefully. We don't want to start a panic here."

"Under the table?" Deyton said incredulously, straining to keep his voice low. "Christ, this is playing out like a goddamned spy flick. Could you not have just told me where to pick it up?"

"This has to be fully off the books, Robbie, and we don't have time to piss about with dead drops or secret meets. As far as anyone need know, we're having a drink to reminisce about a departed colleague." Dusautoir hissed. Deyton took a long sip of his drink, feeling the alcohol warm his throat as the sweet taste washed over his tongue. He reached under the table, and felt the compact form of the pistol, its metal casing cold to his touch. Keeping his face level, and his gaze fixed on his superior, he gave the weapon a hard tug and tore it off. Ignoring the tape that still trailed from it, he slid the compressed weapon into his trouser pocket, relieved to find it just fit.

"What is it?" Deyton asked out of curiosity, despite his knowledge of firearms being less than encyclopaedic.

"An Ariake Raikou." Dusautoir said simply, and Deyton found it was a weapon with which he was indeed familiar; certainly it was a more powerful weapon than his standard issue Kessler, and more easily modified too. Deyton looked up at Dusautoir, studying his face for any clue as to his thoughts. Deyton himself was decidedly uncomfortable with this cloak and dagger approach, as he had thought Dusautoir would have been; the man had seemed such a by-the-book sort. Deyton saw nothing but resolve in the man's face, though. Clearly he thought this investigation to be worth the risks.

Deyton could not disagree, either. Humanity's rapidly expanded history curriculum had sided unequivocally with the Citadel Council's recollection of the rachni wars, and everything he had heard about the species gave him reason to fear their apparent resurrection. If they were indeed getting off planet, they could spread and reignite the old conflict far too soon for Deyton's liking.

"Where do I start?" He asked quietly, fearing the answer he knew was coming.

"Peak 15." Dusautoir curled his lips. "No bullshit this time, no pissing around with the Alliance. Get in however you can, and get as much information as you can." Deyton's stomach knotted, and he brought a hand up to his face, cracking his knuckles nervously.

"I'm just one man, sir. I don't have military training, and I'm only a fair shot at best. You're asking me to sneak through an Alliance military quarantine, into a facility potentially still crawling with a deadly, hostile alien species? I'm not sure I can do that" Deyton breathed, fighting to keep his voice level.

"I know it sounds crazy, but it's our only option. If we keep up this case publically, we're signing our death warrants. If we do nothing, who knows what could be unleashed on the galaxy?" Dusautoir muttered bitterly. "Besides," Dusautoir allowed a mirthless smile to form, "if there were still rachni loose, they'd have nuked the whole facility from orbit."

"Thanks. That fills me with confidence." Deyton replied, the sarcasm heavy in his voice. He stood up, feeling the weight of the gun in his pocket; a weight that was as deeply uncomfortable as the metaphoric weight that he now bore heavily on his mind.

"Good luck, Robbie," Dusautoir said as Deyton made to leave, "I just hope you don't need it."

With that, Deyton threaded his way through the ever growing crowd and left the bar. Whatever distraction he may have felt on his way over was now overwhelmed by more impending, fear-filled musings on a mission he was all too reluctant to embark on. Worse still, and all the more pressing for it, was the knowledge that he could not refuse.

Here he was, now preparing to walk into a place he had come to dread, and doing it willingly. Did that it make him braver than walking blindly into danger, or more stupid? Deyton considered the question for a few seconds, before bitterly settling on an answer.

No one could ever call this an intelligent decision, and bravery was just a concept invented to justify stupidity by those lucky enough to live through it. Deyton just hoped profound idiocy would not be his epitaph when they shipped his corpse back to Earth.


End file.
